by Alan Gold
“My dear priest. We used different doors to enter, but we are both now, as always, in the service of the temple.”
* * *
HE WAS DRESSED in his pure white vestments, those he usually wore only on the great day of fasting and sacrifice as defined by the Levites on the tenth day of the month of Tishri, the day when he and the people of Israel atoned for the sins of their ancestors in the desert after leaving Egypt. At Mount Sinai they had doubted Moses would return and in their fear and loneliness molded and fashioned a golden god creature. Moses descended from the sacred mountain and in his fury smashed the tablets Yahweh had given him, just as today Ahimaaz descended from his mountainous temple and walked through the Western Gate to the king’s palace.
Unlike previous occasions when some palace official had stopped him and forced him to wait for some time before seeing the king, this time Ahimaaz walked straight past the servants into the throne room. The look on his face and the staff of office he carried told them to be wary of him. As he walked through the doors of the room, he was announced by the king’s servant.
Ahimaaz walked to where Solomon was sitting on his throne and wondered why the king, who normally ignored him as he entered, was looking at him so fiercely. Usually nervous, this time Ahimaaz was confident, for no matter what Solomon did to him—no matter how much he shouted or ridiculed or compared him with his pious brother—Ahimaaz knew that when he confessed, he would shortly thereafter die. And death was welcome.
Ahimaaz had listened to Gamaliel’s reasoning, a plan that would see him detail how Tashere stole funds from the temple unbeknown to the tax collector. Gamaliel would be distanced from his crime, and he, Ahimaaz, would be secured by his act of loyalty to the king, no longer at the mercy of Naamah.
But as he stood before the king, Ahimaaz closed his eyes for a moment, and in the blackness that enveloped him saw the whirling of the colored spinning top and heard his brother’s laughter. No. There would be no elevation for him. There could only be the truth to shut out from his head the silence of the Lord God and the ridicule of Queen Naamah.
Taller than normal, standing straight despite the king’s withering looks, Ahimaaz bowed before the throne. He spoke immediately, which stunned the amanuenses and officials gathered around the walls of the chamber.
“Majesty, I am here on a matter of God’s business, and—”
“God’s or yours?” asked Solomon, his voice dry and humorless.
“God’s business. I am here to tell you something that will affect your kingdom, which involves your heirs and your wives and I who preside over your temple . . .”
“What is it that people call me, Ahimaaz?”
The question surprised him and broke him from the trance of confession he had put himself in.
“Solomon, Majesty.”
The king smiled and shook his head. Ahimaaz remained mute. Suddenly, all the courage he’d been mustering vanished, and he shrank into his clothes.
“Not just Solomon, priest. My people call me Solomon the Wise. I give fair judgments when people with a dispute come before me; other kings look at the way I rule and envy me. And it’s because I am fair, wise, and knowledgeable that my people love me. Do you understand that, priest?”
He mumbled, “Yes, Majesty.”
“There is nothing you have to say that I do not already know.”
Ahimaaz was blank and unsure of what the king would say next.
“I knew you would come. It has been known to me for a long time.”
All moisture was sucked from Ahimaaz’s mouth, and his eyes shifted about the throne room. Only now did he see Gamaliel standing by the far wall of the room. The tax collector looked hard at Ahimaaz, and the stare told him he, too, was slipping into a strange panic at the king’s words.
“I know my wives very well. I choose many. But I choose them carefully. I know, too, my sons—those who remain close to me and those whom I have cast out.” Solomon paused, stood, and stepped down from the plinth on which his throne stood. He took three long strides toward Ahimaaz and the priest felt his body shrink under the king’s shadow.
Solomon’s voice lowered as he drew nearer. “I know of your schemes with Naamah. I know how it came to be that her son, Rehoboam, became my heir. And I know what part you played, Ahimaaz, high priest of Yahweh.”
The horror of realization filled Ahimaaz, but he remembered his purpose, his resolve to meet the end he knew must come. But Solomon, for all his wisdom, knew nothing of what was in Ahimaaz’s heart, and he burst out laughing.
“And would it shock you to know that I am aware of Ta-shere’s conspiracy with the tax collector?” Ahimaaz heard a dull thud as Gamaliel dropped to his knees on the other side of the room. But Solomon ignored him. “You see, high priest, there is nothing I don’t know about what happens in my kingdom, let alone what is whispered between conspirators in the corridors of my palace.”
“But . . . but . . . why? Why did you allow it? If you knew . . .”
Solomon looked down at Ahimaaz quizzically as if pondering the foolish statement of a child. “I am the son of David and Bathsheba; my beloved father wanted me, and not my brother Adonijah, to be his heir. And so my mother Bathsheba, Zadok the priest, and others conspired to bring down Adonijah. Just as Naamah and you conspired to destroy my love for Tashere and my responsibility to make Abia my heir.
“None of this is new to me. It is in my blood, and I have no doubt that my bloodline, son after son, will do what my father, David, did when I was a prince and he wanted me to be his heir.
“And because I am of David’s blood, when I came to power, to ensure my reign, I rid myself of rivals. I had my brother and his friends killed. And I now control all the lands from the borders of Egypt to the river Euphrates. Kings submit themselves to me, and my caravans travel far and wide.
“I have written over three thousand proverbs and composed over a thousand songs, and my fleet of ships at Ezion-geber has made me both strong and rich.”
Ahimaaz was barely listening. His mind was dulled.
“But though I am wise, I am not God. I am not perfect. I went against the word of the Lord, and I married women who were Moabites and Ammonites, Egyptians and Assyrians. And these women showed me that while Yahweh, the god of the Jews, is invisible, the gods of my wives were able to be seen. I built them temples and allowed them their idols in their rooms, to which they prayed, and soon I, too, prayed to them. And I grew stronger and stronger in wealth and territory.
“But my son Abia, he is a disciple of your brother Azariah, and he will allow no other god than Yahweh in this land. He, above all else, is full of zeal.”
Solomon stopped himself, seemingly in the middle of a thought, and pondered for a moment. Ahimaaz breathed deeply and slowly while Gamaliel held his breath.
Solomon sighed. “Abia would have gone to war for Yahweh. He would have attacked Egypt, perhaps even Babylon. And he would have expelled all my wives when I was dead. And what would have come of this?”
Solomon waited as if genuinely expecting someone in the room to answer. But nobody did. Ahimaaz knew his death was close. This is not what he had planned, but it would come nonetheless.
“A war, a war fought for Yahweh. But one that would have led to the destruction and enslavement of all Israel. And not just a war between Israel and Egypt but between us and Moab, and between us and the Hittites and the Assyrians. No matter what I said, no matter how I counseled and demanded, Abia was determined to rid the land of Israel of my wives and concubines and their gods. He would have brought destruction to my kingdom. So he had to be exiled. As did your brother, high priest. And no matter what militia she raises, or how much she fights or begs, Tashere will never return to my bed, and our son Abia will never rule in my place. So tell your tax gatherer that I am pleased that he told you these things, as I knew he would.”
Slowly Ahimaaz looked up at the king.
“I know what’s in your heart, Ahimaaz, high priest of Yahweh. I know what dark pain keeps you
from sleep.”
The words were a lash across his back, a lash that sent the spinning colors of the child’s toy whirling in his mind once more. The laughter of his brother. The two of them running through their father’s house. The brother he had played with and laughed with. The brother he had betrayed.
“Your brother will never be returned from exile.”
Tears welled in Ahimaaz’s eyes. A rush of blood pounded in his temple.
“Abia fell in league with your beloved brother, Azariah. Together they wanted the death and destruction of all those who would not accept Yahweh. And so you were my instrument. You and the tax collector both. My instruments.”
Ahimaaz felt his knees, in danger of collapsing. All this time Solomon the Wise had known everything. Had used him.
Realizing Ahimaaz’s distress, Solomon continued. “And do you think that Naamah’s whisperings into my ear were what convinced me? Are you so stupid to believe that I’m as foolish as you, high priest? That I would allow a wife to dictate the running of my nation?”
Others in the room began to laugh. Soon the chamber echoed with Ahimaaz’s shame and ridicule.
“Return,” said Solomon. “Go back to being the high priest. Go back to your rituals. And tomorrow, when you wake up, understand that Solomon can see into your scheming heart.” He roared with laughter.
From somewhere deep inside him, a weak but insistent voice said, “No.”
The room’s mirth slowly fell into silence. All eyes upon him. Not least of all Gamaliel from across the chamber.
“No, I will not return.”
Solomon glowered at Ahimaaz, but this time the priest did not shrink from his gaze.
“I won’t be your high priest anymore. I will be the instrument of no one.”
And Ahimaaz tore off his pure white vestments, beneath which he was wearing sackcloth covered in the ashes of the sacrifice, the dress of a sinner, and left the throne room without having been given permission.
The king watched him leave, and for just a brief moment there was a smile of acknowledgment, perhaps even admiration, on his face.
* * *
October 20, 2007
YAEL WAITED in the hospital’s main reception entrance area and saw him leaving his car. She watched him walking toward her, self-confident, self-possessed. In another life, he could have been a movie star; not pretty but ruggedly and strikingly good-looking, he was tall, lean, attractive in a very masculine way, with dark, Semitic looks and jet-black eyes, dressed in easy and casual clothes matched top and bottom with enormous care. Color and style harmonized as though he had a willing wife or a shrewd butler, and he looked as though he knew that he was at the top of his game. To a passerby he could have been any successful young Israeli man, yet she, of course, knew he was an American. She couldn’t help noticing that as he walked toward the hospital’s doors, nurses he passed turned for another glance.
When he saw her, he beamed his best television presenter’s smile, walked purposefully toward her and shook her hand. She was tall for a woman, but he stood a head taller. As they made their way to the cafeteria, she couldn’t help but feel that people were looking at them both. The white medical overalls and stethoscope around doctors’ necks normally made them invisible in the hospital, but the two of them walking together were turning heads.
They sat with their coffees and Yaniv came straight to the point. “Yael, I said to you that you’re the face of modern Israel: talented, clever, professional, and dedicated. If you’re willing, I’d love to do a feature story on you, a profile of who you are. It’ll be shown in America, and we have tens of millions of viewers, and it’ll almost certainly get picked up here in Israel.”
“And what do you think makes me interesting? Or different?” she asked.
He smiled and said, “I’m a good storyteller. I can make anyone interesting.”
She suddenly felt miffed. “Then you don’t need me. If you’re Pygmalion, I’m nothing more than a dumb marble statue called Galatea.”
He blushed. “No, that’s not what I meant.”
His reaction in the moment made Yael soften. A man with such self-confidence caught off guard, floundering before her. It made her feel assertive and poised and helped her see him as a slightly less clichéd American.
“I didn’t mean that at all, Yael. Of course you’re interesting and fascinating. But it’s the angle of the story I choose to take, and the way it’s shaped by the editor that makes or breaks a good story or makes a boring story compelling. That’s all I meant.”
“I know. I was only teasing. So, if I said yes, what angle would you like to take?” Yael asked, skeptical of the word’s meaning.
“I need to know more about you and your family. When you came to this country, where you’re from, what your parents do, what their backgrounds are, your work as a surgeon—what compels and drives you . . . Then we’ll—”
“Whoa . . . wait a minute . . . That’s a lot of investigation. I don’t want to talk about my family. Anyway, I don’t have time for this sort of thing.”
“It’s all research. I won’t take up too much of your time. The work you do here in the hospital, you standing near the Wailing Wall if you’re religious, looking over the West Bank if you’re political, outside the Knesset if you’ve been a demonstrator—that sort of thing. We’ll pick you up, have makeup and hair in another car ready just before you appear on camera, schlep you quickly from place to place, and deliver you back. Like you tell people before you give them an injection, ‘It’ll only hurt a bit . . .’ ”
“And the other stuff . . . my parents’ background, where we came from . . .”
“I’ll interview your family and anybody else appropriate: friends, schoolmates . . .”
“Why? Why all this fuss just because I found an old piece of stone?” she asked.
“It’s a bit more than that. You’re A-grade talent for TV. Who knows? If I make you famous, you could put this surgery business behind you and become what every young woman really wants to be.”
Yael raised an eyebrow.
“A weather girl on TV.” Yaniv’s smile was his trademark and he used it to full effect.
She forced herself not to laugh. His American bravado might work on a lot of other young women, but Yael didn’t want to seem like putty in his hands. He quickly changed tone.
“Look, good-news stories don’t come often for Israel in the U.S. media. You and the archaeological find are a good-news story.”
“My role was accidental. It all sounds like such a fuss and I did very little. I’m frantically busy. My surgery list is so full.”
“For the good of the nation . . .”
“For the good of Yaniv Grossman, is more like it.”
“Oh, absolutely!” And he smiled again.
* * *
ACROSS THE KIDRON VALLEY from where Yaniv was sitting with Yael, in the village of Bayt al Gizah, another meeting was taking place. The mosque was tiny compared to the palatial mosques of Mecca, Medina, or Istanbul, but the intensity of the prayers and the yearning of the congregants were no less passionate. It was a prosaic building at best, with a blue-domed cupola and a minaret that was almost invisible among the nearby houses. It had been constructed in the 1930s following the demolition of three houses that clung to the edge of the cliff, and for years it had been little more than a house of prayer.
But recently the intensity of the sermons delivered by a new and fervent imam, Abu Ahmed bin Hambal bin Abdullah bin Mohammed, had roused the younger men of the town to new heights of passion, their fervor channeled into hatred for the Jews who lived in their mansions across the valley. The imam had tapped into the frustration of the youth, and in the two years since his arrival he had drawn around him a group of men whom he’d dubbed his Army of God. Bilal was one of them. So was his unemployed friend Hassan, who earned his meager income from being a pickpocket in the Jerusalem marketplaces.
All the young men were assembled for the usual Wednesday-nigh
t sermon, a gathering of intimates and initiates behind closed doors, where the imam would explain why the young men were disadvantaged and unemployed, why the Palestinians were poor and dispossessed, and why the Jews across the valley were to blame; these Jews, he told them, drove their Porsches and BMWs, living like ancient kings in their ten-bedroom mansions because they were thieves who had stolen Palestinian land, dispossessed the rightful Palestinian owners, and were prospering while the Palestinians were forced to live in squalor. Fueling their anger, the imam told them that he’d heard there was a secret Jewish law, not on the statute books, that allowed a Jew to abuse his Palestinian servants, even kill them, just for displeasing him.
To the young men, for whom prosperity was an idea far removed from the poverty of their lives, the imam’s words rang loud and true. He quoted history and the Koran, ancient and modern Muslim leaders, Islamic heroes and great warriors, telling his listeners of their bravery and selflessness in the name of Allah. His knowledge never failed to astound the young men listening because the imam was able to make the great men of Islam come alive to them.
He painted vivid pictures so that, in their minds’ eye, they could see how easy it would be to take back all the land stolen from them by the Jews and Christians, to re-create the glory of the ancient Islamic caliphate, the Great Empire of Mohammed, which after his death had exploded out of Arabia and even stretched from India to Spain. And when they were again a great people, they would cleanse Islam itself of the heretical Shi’ites and Alawites and Druze and return all Muslims to the purity of the Sunni religion, which Mohammed had created in the sands of Arabia.
As Yaniv was kissing Yael on the cheek and saying good-bye, the young men in the mosque were sitting cross-legged on cushions, waiting eagerly for their imam to begin his lessons. But on this night it was delayed for some time while he was in his office speaking in hushed tones. Some were listening carefully but couldn’t distinguish what his muffled voice was saying on the telephone.
