Of Fire and Lions

by Mesu Andrews

  Because this is life at court. He remembered the days before the exile, when his ima had warned him of the games kings played with people’s lives. The only difference between Babylon’s courts and Judah’s was Daniel’s new position. He would soon carry the authority to save Judean lives throughout the empire—and he would use that power to find Abigail and help other Judeans who suffered injustice.

  He scrubbed his face and offered a quick prayer to the God who reigned over all the earth. Then stood to meet his captor. “I’m ready to face the king.”

  I, Nebuchadnezzar, was at home in my palace, contented and prosperous. I had a dream that made me afraid. As I was lying in bed, the images and visions that passed through my mind terrified me.

  —DANIEL 4:4–5

  15

  That very night Belshazzar, king of the Babylonians, was slain.

  —DANIEL 5:30

  Babylon

  October 539 BC

  I woke in the windowless treasury chamber and felt as if my family had waited here for days. Mert snored like a dragon beside me. We rested well on the soft cloaks Shesh had thoughtfully gathered from family to keep our old bones from aching on the hard marble floors. Could any son-in-law be kinder?

  The door squeaked, and my lazy lids flew open. Shesh rushed to meet a bald-headed priest who carried a basket mounding with round loaves of bread. I strained to hear their whispered conversation but heard nothing. The priest smiled kindly before leaving—with perhaps a hint of sadness or disappointment—and placed the full basket of bread in Shesh’s arms.

  I waved to my son-in-law, demanding his attention. He glanced over to where Kezia was still sleeping and soundlessly hurried my way. “Good morning, Ima. Did you sleep well?”

  How could I sleep well in the Esagila? “Of course not, but thank you for the cloaks. What did the priest say?”

  “The fighting has ceased in the streets.”

  “And the palace?”

  “No word.”

  I felt the news drop like a boulder in my stomach.

  “The priests were up all night, baking for the refugees in the temple.” Shesh reached for a loaf of bread, tore it, and gave me half. “We must leave by midday. Do you know of anyone who could house all of us?”

  “We can’t leave,” I said. “Daniel won’t know where to look for us when he’s released from the palace.”

  “Ima…” Shesh tilted his head, his eyes communicating his doubts.

  I looked away, scanning my displaced family. The babies and toddlers were waking, cuddling with sleepy parents. My children and grandchildren lay in each other’s arms, whispering and afraid. We couldn’t stay here forever. Even if Daniel was released, we’d need new homes since the invaders confiscated our villas. The answer to our dilemma was clear, but stuck like a fishbone caught sideways in my throat. How could I tell Shesh our secret—the secret that had stolen my children’s love and respect from me so many years ago?

  Yahweh, what should I do?

  Mert sat up, yawned. Shesh tore another loaf and offered half to her. “Tell him, or I will.”

  “I was going to tell him.” You old goat.

  “Then tell him.”

  “I will.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Daniel owns an estate in Borsippa.” I blurted out the secret I’d kept for over thirty years.

  I saw relief in Shesh’s raised brows instead of the anger I feared. “That’s wonderful, Ima. If we leave soon, we can be in Borsippa before dark.” He started to leave us, but hesitated. “Perhaps someday you’ll tell me why you and Abba kept the estate a secret from us.”

  I brushed his bearded cheek. “When Daniel returns from the palace to find our villas occupied by Medes, Borsippa will be the first place he looks. Perhaps Daniel can explain then.”

  His eyes misted, and he held my hand against his cheek. “May Yahweh guide him to us.” He stood and clapped his hands, gaining the family’s attention. “Ima and Mert will deliver bread to each family. Please take only a half loaf per adult and only as much as your children will eat. We leave for an estate in Borsippa as soon as possible. When you’re ready, line up at the door. We’ll gather as many waterskins as possible from the priests on our way out.”

  Mert carried the basket, and I began offering bread and a blessing to each of my family members, drinking in the intimacy such urgency creates. I’d nearly finished rationing the provisions when I heard a beautiful sound.

  “Abba!” one of our daughters exclaimed.

  “Saba has returned!” The little ones ran as a mob, nearly knocking Daniel over, and the adults clapped and shouted.

  “Daniel!” I said with a delighted cry. Almost immediately, I stumbled back into Mert at the sight of a man wearing the robe of the Mede’s chief magus. “Gadi?” The name escaped on a whisper, heard only by my friend.

  “It has to be Allamu,” Mert whispered to me in reply. “Not Gadi.”

  The man’s eyes locked on mine. He took three steps toward me, and I matched them. Ten paces separated us now, but a greater chasm was riven years ago.

  He raised one brow with a mocking grin. “Hello, Mother.”

  * * *

  The pain on Belili’s expression tore at Daniel’s heart. He’d never imagined Allamu would announce his kinship so bluntly to their unsuspecting family.

  “Allamu, please step into the hall where we can speak privately,” Daniel said, but Belili’s son stepped farther into the room.

  Approaching Shesh, Allamu extended his hand. “You must be my sister Kezia’s husband. Daniel told me you’re an elder of the Jews. General Gubaru will be anxious to speak with you and the other elders of standing.”

  Shesh glanced at Daniel before gripping his hand. “I would be honored to meet your general. May I ask your position among the Medes?”

  Allamu clucked his tongue. “Forgive me, Lord Sheshbazzar.” After an exaggerated bow, he raised his arms and spoke to the whole family. “I am Allamu, chief magus and General Gubaru’s personal seer. Babylon now belongs to an empire ruled by Cyrus the Great.”

  Daniel, seeing his wife’s cheeks pale, moved across the room to support her. He kissed her temple and whispered, “When the soldiers invaded the banquet, Allamu recognized me and advised the general to let me live. They slaughtered everyone else in the throne room. Afterward he demanded to see his mother. I’m sorry it came out this way, my love. I’m so sorry.”

  She leaned into him, eyes closed, voice a hushed groan. “I’m so thankful you’re alive.”

  Allamu’s shout invaded the tender moment. “Zerubbabel!” A short but stout Hebrew emerged from the hallway. Allamu patted his muscular shoulder. “Zerubbabel is the grandson of a Judean king but is somewhat less devout in his beliefs than I remember Daniel being.” He chuckled, but the guard looked as if he wanted to crawl back to the hall.

  “Zerubbabel now serves as General Gubaru’s personal guard and escorted us here because he expected danger in the streets.” He flashed a smug grin. “I suspect I may face more peril from this family than the people of Babylon.”

  “Allamu,” Daniel said, hoping to interrupt his inane chatter, “simply tell your ima about our homes.”

  The man covered the distance between them in two long strides and looked down with a cold stare. “She’s my mother, not my ima. I’m a Mede, not a Hebrew.”

  “You have as much Hebrew blood as Median in your veins,” his mother said.

  “He has the manners of a Mede.” Mert huffed and crossed her arms.

  Allamu’s features darkened as he spun toward the voice. “Who…” He studied her for only a moment. “Mert!” He smothered her in a hug.

  “This is absurd!” Kezia pinned her ima with an accusing glare, and even Shesh’s gaze held uncharacteristic suspicion.

  Daniel pulled his wife closer. �
��Please, everyone. Listen. We’ll explain everything in time, but right now we’re all feeling shocked. Allamu has arranged for us to keep our villas.” A relieved buzz fluttered through the gathering.

  Daniel noted Allamu’s reunion with Mert had ended and nodded at Allamu, hoping his stepson would divulge the rest of the news. But Allamu pursed his lips, shifting the task to Daniel.

  With a resigned sigh, he spoke the words that would change their lives. “General Gubaru has again deemed me Lord Belteshazzar and appointed me to serve on his high council.”

  “No, Dan—” His wife tried to interrupt, but he raised his hand to silence her and continued. “I am to serve him for the rest of my days.”

  Belili stepped away from him, wrapping her arms around her middle. He couldn’t comfort her now.

  “All the king’s officials are required to live on palace grounds. Other than that, the living arrangements in the family villas will remain unchanged.”

  “Why must you live on palace grounds?” Kezia lifted her chin. “Does this general think himself our new king?”

  “They have strapped on your yoke. Does it matter who drives the plow?” Allamu’s glint of satisfaction muzzled Kezia.

  Daniel tried to assuage the panic that began to spread. “All the king’s officials will live on palace grounds to be able to answer his summons immediately, day or night. I couldn’t do that if I lived on this side of the Processional Way. Our family villas remain personal property belonging to us. We must be grateful for the gift.” He met the gaze of each of his children and added, “Belili and I will move to a villa of my choosing today.”

  His wife’s head snapped up with a look of betrayal that pierced him. Her eyes searched his for answers he didn’t have. Finally, she lifted her chin and turned to Allamu. “What kind of general would allow his adviser to choose the villa? A wise leader would ask the adviser’s wife to make that choice.”

  Her son’s stony expression cracked with a faint smile. “Follow me then, Mother, and we’ll find a palace villa that suits you.”

  Daniel and his wife left the chamber, a thousand unanswered questions trailing behind them.

  16

  King Nebuchadnezzar made an image of gold, sixty cubits high and six cubits wide, and set it up on the plain of Dura in the province of Babylon.

  —DANIEL 3:1

  Achmetha, the land of Medes

  Spring 598 BC

  Every priest and priestess of Mithra’s temple dashed about in preparation for the evening’s initiations. The annual event was celebrated throughout Media, but in Achmetha—the nation’s capital—the underground temple thrummed with activity for a week before and after.

  I rounded a corner carrying two pitchers of wine and bounced off the high priest’s belly, staining both our white gowns with the sweet nectar.

  “Forgive me, Highness.” I bowed awkwardly, still balancing the heavy pitchers.

  He took one from my hands and began walking beside me. “Are we on our way to the initiates’ chamber, Belili?”

  “Yes, thank you for helping. I thought I could manage two pitchers, but clearly I was mistaken.”

  “You were doing fine until you bumped into a white bull coming around the corner.” His eyes sparkled with friendly mischief, referring to himself as the poor animal we’d sacrifice tonight for the festival.

  My thoughts dashed over the order of ceremony, the litany of recitations I’d memorized, the sacred bowls, towels…

  “Madam High Priestess!” The high priest stepped in front of me, sloshing the wine again.

  Had he spoken to me more than once? “Yes? I’m sorry. My mind—”

  His smile turned leering. “It’s normal to be a bit nervous before performing your first ceremony as high priestess, Belili, but you’ll do well.” He drew his finger along my jawline, and I leaned into his repulsive gesture, feigning enjoyment. “You’ve soared past every expectation.”

  “It is my honor and oath to serve with the strength returned to me by the great and mighty Mithra.” The practiced words slid from my tongue like well-oiled wheels.

  Not that Mithra had saved me. No god had. Nor any man. When Ashpenaz’s eunuchs abandoned me on the streets of Achmetha, I realized the folly of faith—in anyone or anything. Trust led to betrayals, and betrayals crushed hope. By the time an old woman found me huddled in a trench with other waste, I was starving and had been beaten nearly to death. Even if I’d known she was Mithra’s temple midwife, I was too weak to reject her ministrations. Too desperate to refuse the warm broth she ladled into my mouth. How could I know—Abigail, a naive Hebrew girl—that this woman’s kindness would indenture me to a life of servitude to Mithra?

  The day I was declared healthy, she offered me two choices to pay for her services: the slave market or priestess training. After six weeks as a low-level priestess, I knew I could survive temple service only as high priestess—a woman treated with the respect due Mithra himself.

  “Here we are.” The high priest allowed me to enter the expansive initiates’ chamber before him. Like bees in a hive, priests, priestesses, and slaves busied themselves at seven stations, where would-be initiates would prove their devotion before the feast began.

  My slave, Laleh, ran to meet us. “Both highnesses! Your robes!”

  The high priest shoved his pitcher into her arms. “You worry about the chief priestess’s robe. She must look perfect for tonight’s festival.” He lifted my hand to his lips. “I have no doubt you’ll outshine any other highness before you.” I suppressed my shiver till he released my hand and left, having become an expert at delayed revulsion.

  “I didn’t mean to make him angry.” Laleh’s lip quavered.

  “He’s not angry. He’s the high priest. He always speaks like that.” To slaves. It was how he’d treated me five years ago.

  I walked past her to assess the progress made on the seven stations around the outer perimeter of the room, each designated by an image etched into a marble column. With the progression of images—raven, bridegroom, soldier, lion, moon, torch, and red cape—a priest or priestess rose in status and commitment to Mithra, the god of oaths. The rite at each station was sealed by an oath of silence, all seven oaths known only to the high priest and priestess. Any oath taken tonight was lifelong and punishable by death if broken.

  “Let’s begin with the lowest station.” I advanced to the column of the raven, dictating instructions on necessary preparations while Laleh made notes with her stylus on the wax tablet. Educated Persian slaves were valuable and Laleh doubly so, for she was also beautiful.

  Moving to the second station, I made my way to the altar and picked up one of the clay lamps, symbolic of the sacred bridegroom’s oath. “I see only ten lamps. Where are the rest?”

  The girl’s eyes widened. “I thought you said you only needed ten.”

  “What if all twenty qualify?” I raised my hand to brush her cheek, but she flinched as if I might strike her. My heart constricted, but I couldn’t let her see it in my expression. “I don’t hit slaves for honest mistakes. Only willful rebellion will get you a beating, and one of my guards would do it so you’ll never disobey again.”

  The fear in her eyes bludgeoned me, and I turned away quickly. I would never order any slave beaten, but I’d done worse things. And much worse had been done to me. Laleh’s beauty would undoubtedly force her into priestess training. I’d clawed my way through all seven rites of Mithra in only five years. Now, as high priestess, I lived in nearly as much comfort as our Median queen. Splendid food. A spacious chamber. And a warm bed—only occasionally trespassed by the wealthiest men of Achmetha, come to offer their “oaths” to Mithra. How long would it be until Laleh, or another girl even more beautiful, displaced me?

  What happened to Mithra’s discarded high priestesses? I could never return to Yahweh. Apparently, He didn�
�t dwell among the Medes. I’d cried out to Him every time a man abused me in the streets of Achmetha, every time I grew faint with hunger. I thought surely the God who had revealed Himself in the Holy of Holies and protected me from death in Jerusalem would show Babylon’s new chief of wise men where to find me.

  Perhaps Yahweh had never meant to protect me. What if He saved my life only because He was protecting the four princes? Fear, abuse, and starvation had created shrewd Belili and put trusting Abigail to death forever.

  “Highness? You look pale.” Laleh’s luminous eyes blinked her concern. “May I pour you a cup of wine?”

  “Yes. I need a little something to help me through this inspection.” I reached into my pocket for a little goose fat to smooth my unruly curls beneath Mithra’s tiara. Spouting like a fountain from behind the tiara, my riotous curls cascaded down my open-backed gown.

  Warm fingers slid under my curls, and I whirled, ready to lift my knee into the tender parts of any man who touched me without paying for an oath. “How dare—” I froze, then quickly bowed before the chief magus, a frequent worshipper and King Astyages’s dearest friend. I amended my words and tone. “How are you today, Lord Gadi?”

  “I’m sorry, Belili.” He cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t have disturbed you on such a busy day.”

  I looked up and saw him retreating. “Wait, please!” If I offended the chief magus, it would be I who endured a beating. I caught up and fell to my knees before him, kissing the large gold ring on his hand. “Forgive me, Lord Gadi. I wasn’t expecting you in the initiates’ chamber. I’m always happy to see you.” It was true. Of all my worshippers, Gadi was one I might have even called a friend if we’d met outside these walls.