by Mesu Andrews
37
This is what the LORD says to his anointed,
to Cyrus, whose right hand I take hold of
to subdue nations before him.
—ISAIAH 45:1
Daniel left the villa before everyone else to join Cyrus’s processional with the other council members. Sheshbazzar led our family from my palace villa and began the short journey to the south gate of the palace courtyard. I walked amid my growing tribe, determined to remain hidden among them. Shesh and Kezia seemed equally determined to find a place closest to the grand stairway.
“Wait!” I shouted, frightening the infant in my arms to tears. “Didn’t Daniel tell you he wanted us to stay near the south gate?”
“No, he didn’t mention it,” Shesh called back to me. “Don’t you want to get close enough to see Abba and Allamu’s faces? I’m sure Gubaru’s council will stand close to the stairway.” The thought of seeing Allamu again nudged me against better judgment. He’d made no attempt to see me after moving us to our new villa. I wasn’t surprised, but my heart still ached.
A distant roar announced the processional’s beginning. “Hurry, Ima. The courtyard is filling up fast.” Choosing to surrender, I squeezed through the burgeoning crowd behind my determined son-in-law.
The roar in the distance came in waves as King Cyrus drew nearer through the poorer sections of Babylon. How much praise was for Cyrus, and how much would have been offered to anyone providing relief from King Belshazzar? Belshazzar’s reign had stifled trade and drained the city’s resources. For the peasants in Babylon’s streets, Cyrus was the great savior, come to restore their city to life and health.
Neighborhoods nearer the Processional Way grew wealthier, and as the parade drew closer to the Ishtar Gate, the roar dulled to polite applause. To the nobility, Cyrus and his Medes were vipers in the weeds. Men killed at Belshazzar’s feast left countless widows and orphans, the homes and women claimed by Median soldiers only days after the attack. Those claimed stood silent around us, bruised and humiliated. Those unwanted were sold to temples or sent to slave markets.
Four carts clattered into the palace courtyard, drawing my attention with the sound of growls emanating from them. The sight of lions in iron cages stirred mixed reactions among the onlookers. Some pulled their children closer. Some cried out in fear, others in excitement. We’d heard rumors of Cyrus’s fascination with the beasts, not only of him hunting them but also of how they hunted—and devoured—humans.
A battalion of Mithraic priests followed the growling beasts—at a safe distance, of course. The priests swung giant censers in rhythm with the low thrumming of their chants, filling the air and my mind with unwelcome memories. Two Persian guards led a pure white bull before the bevy of priestesses.
One of our great-granddaughters leaned close and spoke in a loud whisper, “What will they do with the bull, Savta?”
Images played in my mind, and I could see the exact details of the ceremony. Every word of incantation. Every rite at each of seven levels. The price the high priestess charged for an oath by nobleman or king. All came flooding back in a nauseating rush of pain and regret. “Perhaps they sacrifice the bull.” It was a safe answer, but empty. I should teach her the timeless truths of Yahweh, but I could barely keep this morning’s meal in my belly.
Behind another contingent of Persian soldiers came King Cyrus himself, riding a dazzling black steed. General Gubaru rode beside him on a brilliant white stallion.
Cyrus had gotten old. The thought helped ease my angst. Would I have known him in a crowd? In a different city? A different life? I stood a little straighter, fear of recognition dimming with each imperfection I saw in the boy I’d met only once years ago. He and Allamu had shared barely a week together when they were boys. How could he remember me all these years later?
“There’s Allamu.” Shesh pointed. “And Abba.” Of the three men marching behind King Cyrus, two belonged to me. What once would have yielded a sense of security now filled me with dread.
My eyes rested on Daniel, the only stoop-shouldered, gray-headed man among hundreds of black-haired, curly-bearded warriors and priests marching into our city. Yahweh, what are You thinking? Why throw him into the fray at his age?
I heard no rumble of thunder or heavenly messenger. Not even a stolen glance from my husband. But my spirit enjoyed complete settledness. There would be no blood in the streets today. No battle between our conquerors. Not even an uprising of rebellious Babylonians. A cool breeze swept across my cheeks like a divine kiss, and I knew in that moment that Daniel and I would never leave Babylon—even if some in our family joined the prophesied remnant that returned to Jerusalem. We were rooted here, like Nebuchadnezzar’s hanging gardens, to the foundations of this city.
Shesh leaned close. “Ima, why are you crying?”
I swiped at the tears I hadn’t realized were falling. “They’re grateful tears. So grateful. Thank you for leading our family well during the years we were in Borsippa and in the years of nearby separation.”
“Nearby separation.” He rested his head on mine. “That’s a good description of some very hard years. Years that are behind us now, Ima.” He kissed the top of my head covering.
Kezia stood on the other side of her husband, as usual, but this time instead of avoiding me, she peeked around him and smiled. The simple gesture gave me hope.
I bowed my head, overwhelmed at God’s goodness and grace. Yahweh, oh my God and gracious Redeemer, thank You for turning darkness into light and death into life.
The clanging of palace gates wrenched my attention back to the courtyard as the last of the processional stepped onto palace grounds. King Cyrus rode his steed up the palace steps, and I feared he might continue right through the doors. Amyitis would swat him were she alive to see it. Stopping short of the entrance, he dismounted and stood as tall as Nebuchadnezzar had been. An imposing figure. A giant among men.
Must all kings be tall?
“I have closed the gates to speak with the noblemen and women of Babylon.” His voice was low and smooth, rolling over us like mulled wine on a cold mountain evening. “Those of you who lived in peace under Belshazzar’s reign, I bid you continue.” He drew his sword, the sing of it a threat. “Those of you intending rebellion, I bid you fight and die.”
King Cyrus descended the palace stairs and halted in front of a nobleman to my left. He lifted his sword and rested the point at the base of the man’s throat. “Do you choose peace?” he asked with a smile.
The man tried to nod, but the sharp tip broke the skin. He stilled. “Yes, my king. I choose peace.”
“Good. Good!” Lifting his sword, Cyrus commanded one of his men, “Get this man a cloth to wipe his neck,” and then found another nobleman with whom he repeated the game. Countless times he tested both men and women, and everyone, of course, answered peaceably.
Seeming satisfied with the results, Cyrus returned to General Gubaru and motioned for him to dismount. That’s when I discovered all kings were not tall. Gubaru was built much like the guard Zerubbabel, but Gubaru’s girth—unlike the Hebrew guard’s—seemed derived from too many banquets.
Cyrus waved him toward the Ishtar Gate’s watchtower. The general’s attendant scampered behind them, carrying a basket the shape and size of a roast duck. The nobility stood spellbound, waiting for the two leaders to emerge at the top of the parapet. One a Mede. The other the grandson of a Mede—now a Persian.
Gubaru and Cyrus appeared at the top of the Ishtar Tower, now visible again to the peasantry outside the gate as well as we who stood inside the courtyard. Cyrus grabbed Gubaru’s hand, raising his arm high, and the commoners roared their praise, shaming those inside the gates to join the celebration.
“Cyrus knows how to manipulate,” I said to Shesh, shouting over the noise. My son-in-law quirked his mouth, unimpressed.
Our new king lowered his arms, motioning for silence. “I am Cyrus, king of Persia,” he said when the crowd stilled. “I will create an empire greater and more prosperous than any the world has seen—but our kingdoms must work together.” He let silence build tension and then, with a booming pronouncement, reeled them in with what rumors had baited. “Today I appoint King Darius, the Mede, as ruler of Babylon and the Lands Beyond the River!”
The announcement roused cheering from the Median soldiers, men loyal to their general unto death. They clanged their spears against shields when Cyrus called the attendant from the watchtower’s shadows and placed a gold crown on Darius’s head.
“I crown you, my brother, King Darius,” Cyrus said. Then he did something that shocked even me. He bowed, stirring jubilant praise from even the most skeptical among the nobility around me.
The new King Darius returned the bow and then drew Cyrus into a respectful embrace. Was this a show, or did these two men truly believe they could rule together the largest empire the world had ever known?
King Cyrus stepped to the edge of the watchtower, facing his soldiers within the confines of the palace courtyard. “My comrades and friends, please turn your attention to the grand stairway, where King Darius’s chosen leaders have gathered.” Three men stood on the top step while all eyes had focused on the watchtower.
Shesh had to steady me. “It’s Saba!” My great-granddaughter’s delighted cheer drew the ire of several around us. She bounced and clapped, oblivious of the stares.
“Yes, I see.” My Daniel stood on that top step, elevated above the satraps, the nobles, and the soldiers. His gray hair glowed like the moon in a night sky of oiled black beards.
King Darius’s voice rose above the murmurs. “The one hundred twenty satraps will govern cities, collect taxes, and enforce the laws throughout Babylon and the three provinces in the Lands Beyond the River—Syria, Phoenicia, and Palestine. I’ve chosen three overseers—a Mede, a Persian, and a Jew—who will supervise the satraps and ensure their efficiency and productivity. King Cyrus’s empire is a world empire in which all nations will live at peace.” He bowed to Cyrus, who then lifted his sword over the courtyard, and once again, the crowds outside the gates roared their approval, though they couldn’t see for whom they cheered.
Those inside the courtyard offered compulsory applause, knowing too well who would pay the empire’s heaviest taxes and suffer its strictest laws. Whispered grousing surrounded me, and I worried for Shesh, his standing among the elders, and our other sons-in-law in their positions at the temples. Kezia’s hens at the market dared not cluck about the new kings. Medes and Persians had little tolerance for nonsense. As for my children and grandchildren, what abuse would they endure? What hurtful words and hidden attacks?
As the emperor and king descended the tower, I looked again to my son. Tall and regal, he drank in the applause and recognition like a man born for royalty. He was stunning. More handsome than his father. With silver hair at his temples and perfectly arrayed in Median finery, he exuded confidence and diplomacy. His political cunning was as sharp as Cyrus’s sword. He would do well in the multicultured political climate, but what of his heart? I looked at the man and saw my little boy, lost and alone in a sea of wealth and success. Oh Yahweh, show me how to reach him.
Darius and Cyrus continued their endless flow of words, now fawning and flaunting directly in front of the Babylonians and Medes gathered in the courtyard. “We have fought together and lived together, and we will now rule together,” Darius shouted, raising his fist in the air like a victor. The satraps joined him, hands held high. When two of the three overseers also beat their fists in the air, I looked at my Daniel and found his head bowed, praying.
Oh Yahweh, protect him, for even now he stands alone.
38
It pleased Darius to appoint 120 satraps to rule throughout the kingdom, with three [overseers] over them, one of whom was Daniel. The satraps were made accountable to them so that the king might not suffer loss.
—DANIEL 6:1–2
Next Day
Daniel heard a trumpet blast as if in a dream. Maybe it was a dream. His body felt like iron weighted to the bed. His eyelids, equally heavy, refused to open. The trumpet again, this time louder. Someone shook his shoulder.
“Daniel. Daniel!”
“What?” He bolted upright in bed. The chamber glowed in predawn gray.
Belili placed a calming hand on his chest. “The king’s trumpet. Why would they call a meeting so early? Let me send a message that you’re ill. You’re too tired to go.”
He took her hand from his chest and kissed her palm. “I’m fine. Stop fussing.” Actually, he was exhausted, but he couldn’t let her know. She’d march into King Darius’s courtroom and demand he be allowed afternoon naps. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.” Dressing quickly, he grabbed a piece of stale bread as he walked past the cook fire and food baskets.
The morning air cleared his head, a hint of night’s chill lingering before the sun chased it away. Cyrus and Darius had kept the satraps and overseers until after the moon’s zenith on their first day of organizing territories and dividing responsibilities. It was exhilarating. While serving as Nebuchadnezzar’s governor of Chaldeans, Daniel had held sway over immediate decisions, sometimes determining life or death, war or peace, a nation’s rise or fall. But to be involved in the foundational planning of an empire…he couldn’t stop smiling.
Barely thirty paces from the palace entrance, he skirted a large, deep pit apparently still in process. Torches burned inside it as men filled baskets with dirt and hoisted them up to be carried away. The size and depth of the hole was impressive, but he was too practical not to shudder at the destruction of Nebuchadnezzar’s beautiful blue-glazed tile street.
Eight lions paced in iron cages around the pit’s perimeter. Daniel suspected the deep hole would be their new home since he’d heard the beasts’ sharp claws and teeth were Cyrus’s preferred method of execution. Why did kings make executions as unique as their seals? As a warrior, Nebuchadnezzar favored torturous deaths. Nabonidus and his son Belshazzar enjoyed the entertainment of public executions. A lion’s roar hurried Daniel’s flight up the stairs. He hoped the lions would be allowed to do their work privately.
Reaching the palace entrance, he greeted the first guard with Darius’s newly prescribed greeting, “Prosperity and honor to the empire.” He was a bit too cheery, judging from the scowl he received. Perhaps a more refined demeanor was befitting a king’s overseer.
Hurrying toward the throne room, he planned to lower his voice and erase the smile but recognized Zerubbabel as one of the guards. “Prosperity and honor to the empire.”
Zerubbabel’s wide smile greeted Daniel with equal zeal. “Prosperity and honor to the empire, Lord Belteshazzar.” He offered his hand, and Daniel gladly embraced his wrist in friendship. “I’ve been promoted to one of three top men myself,” he said, pride beaming. “King Darius chose three personal guards: a Scythian, a Hebrew, and a Medjay. Guess which one I am?” His laughter echoed, earning scowls from the weary satraps forming a line behind Daniel.
He liked this man more each time they spoke. “I’m proud to find a fellow Hebrew protecting our new king.”
Zerubbabel welcomed the overseer and the line of satraps into the courtroom, where surprising changes had been made since last night. The kings’ thrones sat in the middle of the elevated dais, which was the same, but three exquisite couches, gilded and covered with plush pillows, fanned out beside them. One was placed at the right side of Cyrus’s throne, and the other two sat at the left of Darius’s throne.
Only five other officials had outpaced Daniel this morning. Allamu was one, and he approached with an outstretched hand. “Prosperity and honor to the empire.” Finally, someone who matched his enthusiasm.
Gripping the younger man’s wrist, Daniel sensed
a newfound camaraderie after yesterday’s long hours of unified vision. “Did you sleep well?”
Allamu shook his head. “Didn’t sleep at all. I saw only maps and lists of satraps when I closed my eyes. What about you?”
He laughed. “When you’re my age, you can sleep anywhere, anytime—even when you don’t intend to.”
“Good morning.” The sound of King Cyrus’s voice wrenched everyone’s attention to the dais, where both impeccably dressed kings approached their thrones. Darius and Cyrus looked well rested and expertly polished for their first full day in Babylon’s court.
“Please be seated,” Darius said. “Satraps, on the cushioned benches. Our three overseers, on the couches beside us on the dais.”
Allamu headed for the couch closest to King Cyrus, but Daniel hesitated.
Noting the delay, Darius leaned forward on his throne. “Is there a problem, Lord Belteshazzar?”
He glanced at the double doors, where another twenty or more satraps were just now entering. “I wondered if I might ask your permission to sit among the satraps rather than on the couch, my king.” Those entering the room froze in place, and all talking ceased.
“Why?” Darius seemed impatient.
“I’d like to speak freely with the men I’ll rule over. I want to know who they are. Find out about their families. Discern their character through a simple conversation.” He pointed to the two empty couches on the dais. “I can’t do that if I’m sitting up there.”
A few chuckles started behind him, and some whispered wagers on the form of his execution.
Darius exchanged a smile with Cyrus. “I like your idea, Lord Belteshazzar,” Darius said, “but you will sit on the couch prepared for you.”
“Of course, my king.” He hurried up the aisle and climbed the six steps of the dais, choosing the second couch beside Darius. He’d purposely left the one closest to the king empty.
