by Tessa Afshar
Unaccustomed to failure, he chafed under its weight. In the hidden darkness of his soul, the knowledge of that failure ate at him with slow persistence.
THE TWENTIETH YEAR OF KING ARTAXERXES’ REIGN
AUTUMN, SUSA*
(FOUR MONTHS EARLIER)
Jerusalem! Jerusalem!
n
ehemiah’s chest tightened at the thought of the city he had never visited. In less than an hour his brother Hanani would arrive, bringing with him reports of the city of their fathers. Hanani, who along with a group of friends had returned from Judah only the night before, would know the latest news of the land. Although his apartment in the palace was spacious, Nehemiah felt as if the walls were collapsing in, and strode into the marble-floored hallway, his steps impatient. He paced, first in one direction and then in the opposite.
Autumn had settled on the land, and the air in Susa had grown crisp with the change of season. The trees were already naked, having shed their foliage weeks before. A few golden leaves had escaped the attentions of the army of gardeners, and brightened the palace grounds with their colorful death. Nehemiah gazed outside a latticed window, craning his neck. Too soon to see any sign of his guests. He sighed and resumed his clipped gait.
Hearing a sound, he rushed to the window again and saw a group of men walking toward the gate that would lead them to his section of the palace. He grinned and turned to wait for them, his fingers drumming an absent rhythm against each other. At the end of the corridor, he could see the men approaching and he frowned. They were strangers to him.
His shoulders drooped as he walked back down the long hallway. Not having seen his younger brother for over a year, he was eager for the sight of him. But he was even more eager for news of Jerusalem. He could not explain the longing for his ancestral home that had filled his soul in recent months. Nehemiah had been born in Persia. His job as cupbearer to the king placed him in constant proximity to the most powerful man in the world, giving him authority and influence few Jewish men in his generation enjoyed. Yet it was Jerusalem that had filled his thoughts for months.
He stared through the window again. It was growing late. He wondered why Hanani tarried. To his astonishment, he felt a strong urge to bite the corner of a nail, a habit he had outgrown in boyhood. With an impatient gesture, he crushed the impulse. In the distance he saw another group of men approaching the gate. With relief, he recognized Hanani at the head of them.
He lifted a light-hearted arm in greeting as he strode toward the group in the wide palace hallway. “Welcome! Welcome back! Peace be upon you,” he said, his voice carrying in the enclosed space.
No one answered him, not even with a wave. He examined the faces of his guests. What he saw caused a chill to go through him. Shadowed eyes, downturned lips, sweaty brows, fisted hands. He told himself that his guests were weary from their travels. They had been on the road for months, and he knew from experience how exhausting such arduous journeys could prove. But he had an inkling that something serious had gone amiss.
As they came abreast of each other, Hanani introduced him to several of his friends whom Nehemiah had never met. He extended a warm welcome to each and led them to his quarters where he settled them around the table his servant had prepared. He had ensured that the fringed linen pillows strewn on the floor had been cleaned and aired for the occasion. Silk carpets tickled their bare feet, already washed and perfumed by his servant.
The food, which Nehemiah had ordered with special care to their religious dietary restrictions, was served and they were left alone. The scent of fried onions and garlic filled the air. Nehemiah gave a heartfelt thanks to the Lord, his deep voice rolling out the Hebrew syllables with care.
Unable to contain his questions another moment, he unleashed them on his quiet companions. “Tell me about Jerusalem. And our fellow countrymen who have returned from exile to live in the province of Judah. How are they faring these days?”
Hanani dropped his neck as if an ox yoke weighed it down. “Our people are in great disgrace, Nehemiah.”
“What has happened?” the cupbearer took a deep breath to keep his voice from rising. “Hold nothing back. Tell me everything.”
“Last year, I embarked for Judah with so much hope, Nehemiah. I thought I would find our people settled and Jerusalem in good order. I thought I would find a glimpse of our former glory after over a generation of resettlement.”
Nehemiah nodded. “Of course. Is it not so?”
It had been over ninety years since Cyrus the Great freed the people of Israel from their captivity to Babylon. With his support, more than forty thousand of their most talented men and women had returned to Judah during that initial relocation alone. While Nehemiah had been aware of a number of discouraging setbacks throughout the decades, he had expected that with the return of Ezra the priest almost a decade ago, Jerusalem would be on its way back to prosperity.
Hanani leaned over, his hands over his belly as though he ached. “The whole region has become a shambles.”
Nehemiah’s mouth turned dry. He leaned back against the wall. “And the Temple?”
“The new Temple is complete, but it does not compare to its original glory. The structure could hardly be called magnificent, and in spite of King Cyrus’s generosity, its furnishings are sparse. The Holy of Holies remains empty. And the sacrifices offered are a tiny fraction of what you hear about from the days of Solomon.
“Still, that half-empty building is the best thing in Jerusalem right now. The work of revitalizing the City of David and restoring Judah has ground to a halt.”
Nehemiah’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t understand. How can this be?”
“Several years ago, just after the latest group of settlers had arrived from Babylon intending to rebuild Jerusalem, the enemies of Judah sent a letter to King Artaxerxes, accusing the Jews of rebellion. They told the king we were troublemakers. Once Jerusalem was strengthened, they said, we would refuse to pay our tribute to the empire.”
Nehemiah felt suddenly cold and drew his robe closer around him. “I had not heard.”
“At the time, the restoration of Jerusalem was within reach. We had laid the foundations of the city again, and its walls could have been finished within a year or two. But it was not to be. Our foes prevailed.”
“What?”
“The king believed the accusations of our enemies and ordered the work in Jerusalem to be stopped.”
“Artaxerxes?” By virtue of his job, Nehemiah spent many hours with the monarch. The king often treated him as a trusted advisor as much as a servant, and shared his concerns on many matters. But he did not know all of Artaxerxes’ policies. It was impossible to keep up with the constant demands on the king’s life. This was one decision about which the royal cupbearer had known nothing.
Hanani nodded his head. “The results have been devastating. The walls of Jerusalem have been torn down. They are in ruin, Nehemiah. The gates—the beautiful gates of the city—have been destroyed by fire.”
Nehemiah could not utter a single word. The setback described by his brother tore at his heart. After a long silence, he managed to say, “I had no idea things were so bad in Judah.”
“This is not all.”
His brother’s warning made the hair on Nehemiah’s arms stand on end. He untangled his legs and rose, his movements as hesitant as an old man’s. “There is more?”
“Without the walls, Jerusalem is no longer safe. They have suffered a recent famine so there is little food. The rich take advantage of the poor. Most of the residents have left the city to eke out a living from the lands beyond. There are barely a thousand people left in Jerusalem. Our enemies laugh at our disgrace, for we are hardly better than a ruin. I think God has abandoned us, after all.”
When he heard those words, Nehemiah sank to the floor. Unmindful of the men before him, some of whom he had met for the first time that evening, he began to weep. He wept like a child who had lost his mother.
For
days Nehemiah mourned. He fasted. And he prayed.
He performed his duties on an empty stomach and with a broken heart. To honor royal protocol, he pasted a smile on his face and hid the misery that ate at his soul. But whenever he had a private hour, he gave it to the Lord. His prayers rent the heavens with their passion.
He asked God for favor, because he knew that he had to approach the king. Artaxerxes had interrupted the work in Jerusalem, and only Artaxerxes could start it again. Nehemiah could not change the heart of a king. But he believed that the Lord could.
For four and a half months he prayed. He sought the Lord. He asked for strength. He begged for direction. His friends joined him in the fervor of their own requests.
No doors opened. Nothing changed. The king offered no opportunity for the cupbearer to present the plight of his land.
Nehemiah prayed harder. God remained silent.
Slowly, a new voice began to seep into his thoughts. Give up, it goaded. Give up! If God had wished to move, He would have done so by now. What was the point of hours of supplication? Forsake your prayers! Give up! Who are you to think you can make a difference?
Nehemiah dug in his heels and increased his vigilance. He did not understand why God delayed. He could not explain why his prayers were ignored, when surely the Lord Himself must desire the welfare of Jerusalem. All Nehemiah could do was persevere. So he ignored the words of discouragement in his head and persisted, even when his strength ebbed.
Hanani came to visit him late one evening. Nehemiah’s servant had just finished curling his beard and perfuming his hair.
“Mercy, brother, but you smell better than the king’s gardens,” Hanani said. “With your hair as red as Esau’s, you could pass for a flower.”
Nehemiah gave Hanani a quelling look. “It’s part of the requirements of my position. I cannot come before the king and his esteemed guests smelling like a camel.”
In truth, the discrepancy between his circumstances and those experienced by the people in Judah had begun to grate on his conscience. Day after day he prepared himself for his duties as usual. He bathed and covered his body with silks and linen, knowing his countrymen were poor and naked. He inhabited some of the most luxurious edifices the world had ever seen, aware that his fellow Jews lived with inadequate shelter, exposed to the cruel elements. As his leather-shod feet touched marble walkways and silken carpets, he was mindful that his people only had dirt to rest their feet on.
Hanani held up a hand. “I meant no disrespect. Any breakthroughs with the king?”
“None. I try to remember that walking in the will of God might mean waiting as much as it might mean moving forward.”
Hanani sighed and found a large cushion to sit on. “I’ve always admired your faith, brother. For myself, I find this delay senseless and frustrating.”
Nehemiah smoothed his wide sleeves until no ripple remained in the rich fabric. “One thing has changed.”
“I could use some good news.”
Nehemiah’s smile was tight. “I’m not certain you will consider this good news. The months of prayer, though seeming to reap no reward, have produced an unexpected shift in my own heart.
“When I’d first begun to pray, I had merely intended to ask Artaxerxes to reverse his decision. I believed my role was that of intercessor on behalf of the people of Jerusalem. I thought, like Esther, the Lord had planted me close to the king for this hour. I was supposed to intervene for Jerusalem and plead their cause to the king.”
Hanani shifted on his cushion to find a more comfortable spot. “That’s what we have been praying for.”
“My heart has changed, Hanani. The longer I’ve carried on with my supplications, the more I’ve become convinced that Judah needs a strong leader. If the enemies of Jerusalem have already succeeded in interrupting its restoration once, what would prevent them from doing so again? Life at court has taught me that only a faithful commander could see such a demanding task through to its completion. Jerusalem needs more than a building project; it requires a leader who knows how to overcome powerful enemies and draw our people back to the Lord.”
“What are you saying?”
“I want to be that leader.”
“Lord have mercy, Nehemiah!” his brother said, his voice a squeak. “Have you lost your mind? Do you know the trouble you are asking for? This is no job for a pampered courtier, if you’ll pardon my frankness. The foes of our nation are hungry wolves who will swallow you whole. Besides, what will the king say? Would he release you from a job you perform well in order to allow you to traipse into a far-flung corner of his empire?”
“Do you think I haven’t asked myself these questions a hundred times over? I know I have no power to secure what I want. I’m helpless to change anything. Neither my talent nor my experience will prevail. God alone has the strength to provide for Jerusalem.”
Nehemiah picked up an exquisite silver goblet, a gift from the king on his last birthday. Absently, he turned it this way and that, blind to its beauty. “You must remember that the descendants of Abraham are supposed to change the world. We are supposed to bless the nations. Instead, we are practically homeless. The provision of God is faithful, Hanani. He hasn’t forgotten that promise. But He asks us to act as His hands and feet on this earth. Should I refuse the Lord’s call because the world might set itself against me? Because the cost is too high?”
Hanani stuck a finger under his high woolen collar and tugged hard. “We were talking about the king of Persia, not God.”
Nehemiah rubbed his hands together. “That is your mistake. This whole endeavor is about the Lord. And His path is never smooth, brother. That does not mean I can veer from it. No. I tell you, I refuse to give up.”
*446 BC
ONE MONTH AFTER THE DISCOVERY OF THE PLOT TO KILL THE KING
THE TWENTIETH YEAR OF KING ARTAXERXES’ REIGN*
THE MONTH OF NISAN
n
ehemiah carried the king’s golden chalice with three graceful fingers, folding the last two into his palm according to royal etiquette. When he reached the king’s side, he placed the chalice on a carved ebony table. The base of the cup made not the slightest whisper of a sound as it connected with the table. No ripple disturbed the surface of the dark liquid. Using a bejeweled ladle, Nehemiah drew a small amount of wine from the cup and drank from it. A servant rushed to his side carrying a folded linen napkin and a bowl of water perfumed with jasmine blossoms. With practiced movements, the cupbearer dipped his hand for a thorough washing before drying it. He had performed this duty too many times to consider the danger; he was testing for poison, after all. He waited the required moments. There was no sudden, excruciating pain, no rush of nausea, no telltale signs of venom at work in his body. He offered the chalice to Artaxerxes. The queen, who was supping with her royal husband that evening, had her own cupbearer perform the same duty for her.
She tasted the wine. A deep sigh of appreciation escaped her lips. “This is from Darius’s vineyard in Persepolis if I’m not mistaken.”
“Your Majesty’s palate is discriminating as always,” Nehemiah said. “My lord Darius’s baggage train arrived last week after an unforeseeable delay. Lady Sarah sent the wine over as soon as it had settled.”
Artaxerxes gave a good-natured smile. “She is a thoughtful girl.”
Nehemiah didn’t have it in him to return the king’s smile. He was weary with a burden of sorrow that refused to be lifted no matter how he prayed. Thoughts of his shattered native land had haunted him for four and a half months. Jerusalem’s ruined walls kept him awake at night and tormented his thoughts in the daylight hours.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Turning aside, he busied himself with the practical details of his duty. In the back of his mind Nehemiah could hear Artaxerxes speaking. It must have been an amusing comment as it made Damaspia laugh. Unexpectedly, the king said, “What do you think, Nehemiah?”
Nehemiah reddened. He had been so steeped in hi
s thoughts that he had no idea what the king had said. He looked down; without warning he felt overwhelmed by such a wave of sorrow that he could barely prevent himself from bursting into tears, an unforgivable offence during a royal audience.
The king gazed at Damaspia for a moment before returning his attention to the cupbearer. “Why are you so sad? What grieves you, Nehemiah?”
Nehemiah tried to speak. Words failed him.
Again Artaxerxes spoke. “You don’t appear sick. It must be your thoughts that trouble you.”
Cold sweat broke out over Nehemiah’s forehead. He clasped his hands together in order to hide their trembling. Intense fear made his heart race. This was the moment he had prayed for. The king had given him the opening he needed in order to make his request. Nehemiah knew that the king might be offended by what he was about to ask. After all, Artaxerxes’ own life was in danger from an unknown assassin; why should he care about a cupbearer’s troubles? Nehemiah might lose the favor of the monarch forever without gaining an advantage for Jerusalem.
“Long live the king!” he said, through dry lips, and plunged ahead. “You are right to say that I am sad, Your Majesty. How could I be anything else when the city of my ancestors lies in ruins?”
Artaxerxes leaned forward on his couch. “I see. Is it about Jerusalem that you speak? What do you want me to do, cupbearer?”
Nehemiah took a moment to send a lightning prayer to the Lord of heaven. After the months of wearing himself out with his supplications, he still felt unprepared for this conversation. “If it please the king, and if I have found favor with Your Majesty, please send me to Judah so that I can rebuild the city where my fathers are buried.”
