By the Waters of Babylon

by Mesu Andrews

  “Ima, you’re home!” Neriah hugged my waist. “We heard the Babylonians leave! Doda Taphath said we could go outside the city tomorrow and search their campsite.”

  “You’re not leaving the city, Neriah.” I cast a burning gaze at my sister, who sat beside the cook fire, sipping porridge as thin as the widows’. “The armies have gone, but they’re coming back. Jeremiah said they’ll destroy Jerusalem. We’re staying inside these walls.”

  Taphath rolled her eyes. “Jeremiah is an old coot who likes to scare little boys and old women.” She sneered at Neriah. “Stop hanging on your ima like that. You’re not a baby anymore.”

  I squeezed him tighter and kissed the top of his head. “You’re never too old to be loved.” Neriah buried his face against me, a rambunctious boy in need of reassurance after tonight’s frightening events. My eyes burned into my sister. “Must you always speak harshly?”

  “Will you hide him in your skirts until the Babylonians find him there?”

  Fury like a desert wind rose inside me, and I nudged my boy aside. “Get out, Taphath. You’ve done enough damage tonight. Go . . . wherever it is you go.”

  She looked up with a snide grin and set aside her bowl. “You mean I’m dismissed, now that the royal princess has returned?”

  There it was. The perpetual accusation. “You think my life is easier than yours, Taphath?”

  Neriah retreated to a corner, listening to the discordant strains of our recurring chorus. “If you would focus on Yahweh’s blessings rather than your loss . . .”

  “I look to Molech for my provision now, Sister.” She lifted the horned-ox pendant at her neck and shook it at me. “At least he gives me pleasure with the pain.” She stormed out the door, slamming it behind her.

  “Why does she worship Molech when she knows it’s wrong, Ima?” Neriah’s voice was barely over a whisper, my ten-year-old asking the question the prophets had been shouting for generations.

  “Never mind. Let’s eat.”

  While I dipped his portion into a bowl, he laid his arm over my shoulder. “It’s all right, Ima. She’ll be back tomorrow, and I’ll talk with her. She’s not as angry when it’s only her and me.” He kissed my cheek and took the bowl, beginning the Shema before we ate our meal. “Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one. Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength . . .”

  With a weary sigh, and feeling like a complete failure, I joined him in prayer. “. . . we will fear the Lord our God, serve Him only and take our oaths in Your name. Let it always be so in the lives of Your people.” I drew him into my arms and whispered, “And may it someday be so in Taphath’s life again.”

  Jeremiah’s arrest flashed across my memory, and I squeezed my eyes tight, dreading this moment. Neriah adored the old prophet, and Jeremiah—never having a wife or children—doted on my boy like his own grandson.

  I wiped both our tears with my head scarf and braced his shoulders for the news. “They’ve taken Jeremiah before the king’s council as a traitor.”

  He jumped to his feet, tears welling up, while thoughts rushed behind those large, dark eyes. “What will they do to him?”

  I stood and pulled him into a gentle hug. “We must pray they do nothing until Nebuchadnezzar returns with his armies and proves Jeremiah’s prophecies correct. Then, they won’t dare harm Yahweh’s anointed.”

  Chapter 3

  Idan, Jerusalem - Two years later

  “For this is what the Lord says about the sons and daughters born in [Jerusalem] . . . :

  ‘They will die of deadly diseases.

  They will not be mourned or buried but will be like dung lying on the ground.

  They will perish by sword and famine,

  and their dead bodies will become food for the birds and the wild animals.’”

  -Jeremiah 16:3–4

  With a final heave, my men and I shoved the mammoth log forward on its wheels and heard Jerusalem’s Horse Gate crack open like an egg. A valiant cheer, and every one of us rushed in with battle axes held high, hearts pumping battle fury into our veins. More soldiers joined my brother Scythians and me—Medes, Syrians, Edomites—many nations who fought with Nebuchadnezzar’s army by choice or conscription.

  We rushed into the streets, surging into what must have once been their market. We’d barely gone a stone’s throw, when our victory cries died and we gawked like maidens. A pile of bones lay in the street—human bones—stacked as high as a man. Some were charred as if burned in a fire. Some still bore flesh. Why hadn’t they surrendered? A people should know when they've been conquered. Revulsion stirred the fury in my blood.

  A few Medes retched beside me. “Go home to your mothers!” I laughed as did my men. A Scythian was born for war. “Follow me, Scythians! We clear the southern city. Kill the weak. Capture those who can survive the march to Babylon.” The fetid stench of death and disease prophesied few captives in the train.

  I led one hundred of my best Scythian warriors through a large archway that apparently divided the wealthier part of the city from squalor. These were under my direct command, their bows and battle axes clanging in perfect rhythm against their backs. Three thousand more fought alongside Nebuchadnezzar’s disciplined troops. He was King of the World, a man worth fighting for—so said my father Saulius, king of the Scythians.

  The familiar bitterness reignited my rage, and I released another roar. Survivors scurried at the sound of our approach, out of the streets and into their homes. Did they think they could hide? One man crawled across the threshold of his mudbrick hovel. I sent him to the land of dead Jews with a single swipe of my axe. Where did their god take them—a god who would allow this kind of degradation to visit his people?

  My orders were simple in the southern city, but General Nebuzaradan’s were more complex in the northern district. He must search among the survivors for a holy man called Jeremiah. Nebuchadnezzar sought to reward him with kinder treatment. Why was the King of the World so fascinated by the Jews’ god and his prophet? He’d even given strict orders about dismantling the golden temple. Frustration mounted, and I released it through my battle axe. Three less captives to feed and chain.

  Death cries echoed behind me as my men did their work. I paused a moment in the street, eyes guzzling the depravity and watering at the stench. How many of these survivors could actually survive the march? The best of them looked like skeletons with skin stretched over bones. Could any endure a forty-day journey to Babylon?

  Nebuchadnezzar warned me and the other commanders when the siege began eighteen months ago, “These Judeans are like iron. Once they’re bent in a direction, they’re impossible to straighten.” His chief wise man had been taken from Jerusalem as a boy, and even he called his people stiff-necked.

  “And now your neck is broken, stubborn mule.” I spoke to a man half-conscious as my axe sped his journey to the land of the dead.

  Jerusalem’s southern-most wall towered before me, and I heard Nebuchadnezzar’s troops battering through the other side. They’d breach it soon enough, destroying the dwellings within the wall as well as the people—or bodies—inside. I’d seen more dead than alive on my journey and counted no more than fifty on the main street who might endure the march. Having reached the gate, I turned to assess our work so far. My chest swelled with pride, seeing every one of my warrior’s axes dripping with blood. They’d met every challenge I’d asked of them since my father sent us to “defend Scythia’s honor” and fight for the King of the World.

  Nebuchadnezzar cared nothing about my father or Scythia’s honor, but his father, Nabopolassar, held a grudge against Scythia for aligning with Assyria thirty years ago. My men and I paid a high price for a political error made two generations before us, but considering it was my royal family that put us under Babylon’s thumb . . .

  Finished with my general sweep, it was time to begin the odious work of clearing the filthy hovels. The first stone house I approached smel
led of death. Flattening myself against the outer wall beside the door, I pulled out a long strip of cloth from my belt and covered my nose and mouth, knotting it at the back of my leather helmet. I heard flies swarming within, a strong indicator of no survivors, but I’d learned not to take chances.

  I leaned into the doorway. “You have one chance to surrender.” No response. Not a flutter or whisper.

  Distracted by laughter, I looked up the street to find two of my men comparing trinkets. One of them held a silver statue the size of his hand. Idols found in raids had become a contest. Whoever returned to camp with the largest bauble got double portions of food and wine. The thought propelled me into the little house.

  While my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I held my battle axe in my right hand, letting it fall to my right, rolling my wrist in a circle—then to my left side in a circle. It was a warrior’s mindless habit with a weapon as familiar as my own hands. And then the mundane became unimaginable.

  I dropped the axe and rushed outside, bracing myself against the doorframe as I retched. Great goddess Tabiti, how could a woman do this? I’d killed thousands, tortured hundreds. Never had I seen the savagery . . .

  “What did you find, Commander?” my best friend shouted from across the street.

  I stood quickly, kicking dust over my pool of weakness. “I found gods the size of my toe. You’ll surely win my portion of wine tonight, Azat.”

  He held up a hand-sized idol, victorious, while I gathered my courage to retrieve my battle axe from inside. With a sustaining breath, I turned and waded into the darkness like it was a winter stream.

  Keeping my eyes off the carnage, I noted the sparse surroundings. No baskets, dishes, or furnishings. Everything had surely been used to fuel fires during the winter months. A single blanket lay piled in the far corner. Odd. Why wouldn’t they have burned it as well?

  Remaining focused on the blanket, I stepped around the shadowed horror in my periphery, swatting flies, and swallowing back my morbid curiosity at what had happened here. I leaned over to pick up the mysterious blanket and realized there was something wrapped within it. Squeezing my eyes shut, I sniffed back the unfamiliar sense of hesitation. When had I become a mewling puppy?

  I threw my head back and let out another war cry and heard a dozen or more of my men answer their ferocious encouragement. War was my life, my soul, my destiny. Mercenary. Marauder. Scythian. I drew my dagger, snatched the blanket away, and felt my jaw drop. A magnificent harp lay amid the famine, plague, and squalor.

  “Oooooh.”

  I jumped and turned, dagger at the ready, at a woman’s low moan. Forcing a deeper search of the dimly lit room, the sound drew me toward the central fire ring. Three bodies lay in the eerie glow of waning sunlight in varying degrees of violence. Only one could have made a sound.

  Eyes fluttering, hair matted, the wraith stared at nothing. Heat radiated from her body. I nudged her like a child inspecting eggs in a nest. No response. Had the illness driven her mad, causing her to butcher the other two in her household? I inspected their wounds more closely. No. No, it can’t be. The boy had been lovingly tended after his death. Something in my gut said this woman had somehow tried to protect him.

  “Ta . . .” She breathed out the softest whisper, so I leaned close, and she spoke again. “Ta . . . pe . . .”

  I removed the cloth from my head and wetted it with the water from my pouch. Placing it against her cracked lips and pushing it against her swollen tongue, I let the moisture give life. And waited.

  Still staring at the wall with her eyes half-closed, she reached for something unseen. “Ta . . . pe . . .”

  And suddenly I knew. Tabiti. She was saying Tabiti. It was the mother goddess of my people, come down in human form! Wonder filled me. Goddess of marriage and home, purity and fidelity. The image of my wife’s beautiful face flashed in my mind and then our son. Chest tightening as if in a vice, I could barely breath, so strong was my longing for them. Tabiti, give me courage to complete these final months of service to Babylon.

  Another low moan startled me from the prayer, and I reached out to touch her cheek. Burning with fever, yes, but now I studied her surroundings with fresh eyes. Carnage, indeed, but only the divine Tabiti could have arranged this scene as a testimony. The boy’s broken body lay between us. She had fought for him, fought the woman across the room to protect—or at least venerate—this household. Tabiti, a warrior for her family like me. I glanced at the blanket-wrapped harp in the corner and back at my goddess. It was I who would win the double portions of food and wine tonight. The life-sized goddess was now under my care and protection.

  Chapter 4

  “The Babylonians broke up the bronze pillars, the movable stands and the bronze Sea

  that were at the temple of the Lord and they . . . also took away the pots, shovels,

  wick trimmers, dishes and all the bronze articles used in the temple service.

  The commander of the imperial guard took away the censers and sprinkling bowls—

  all that were made of pure gold or silver.”

  -2 Kings 25:13–15

  After hiding Tabiti and the exquisite harp in my tent outside the city, I returned to my regiment, continuing to plunder and gather treasure in the southern city. We worked quickly, finding few people alive and even fewer valuables in the hovels they used for shelter. Poverty had plundered them long before Babylon broke through the gates.

  “Commander, over here!” Azat shouted from the north. “The other troops are destroying the Temple.”

  I shouted a curse and ran, the few pieces of gold and silver I’d collected jingling in my shoulder bag. Nebuchadnezzar had clearly commanded the Temple to be dismantled last. With care and precision. Where was General Nebuzaradan to control his commanders? And why weren’t the other commanders taking charge of their regiments?

  My men fell in step at full sprint, proceeding behind me through the archway and into the upper city. The scene was utter chaos. I raised my fist, signaling my men to stop. Searching the mob for Babylon’s general, I saw nothing but crazed soldiers, eyes glazed with battle fury. Jerusalem’s famed temple was crumbling. No one could stop it now.

  Azat, at my right shoulder, raised his voice. “What is your command?”

  I shouted at my men, “We are Scythians, unbound by temples or homes of wood and stone. Our wealth is here.” I beat my chest with my fist. “The heart of Scythia is our brotherhood. Return to camp, where we’ll count our treasures, exaggerate our success, and drink too much wine!”

  “Ooh, yah!” My men began their disciplined jog behind me. Azat, as my captain, provided rear guard. Three steps and a shout, “Ooh,” battle axe popping forward and back. It was our way. Our intimidation. Enemies trembled at the rhythmic sound of Scythia’s approach.

  We reached camp in the eastern valley of Kidron. “Dismissed!” I shouted, and the men scattered to their tents. Azat’s swagger told me he’d found good treasure. He was no taller than most women—his head barely reaching my armpit—but he was solid muscle and the most ferocious warrior in my regiment.

  The mighty little man reached into his shoulder bag, but I preempted his reveal. “Wait. I have to show you something first.” I waved him toward my tent.

  He laughed and followed two steps behind. “What are we, ten? You think your prize is better than—”

  I opened my tent flap. “She’s a gift from the gods, Azat. She’s going to lead us home.”

  His mouth hung open for a moment before his tirade began. “Did a temple pillar fall on your head? She’s a Judean skeleton with a belly bloated like a pregnant dog.” He knelt beside her and rested his ear against her chest. “She’s barely breathing.”

  “I know it’s hard to believe, but if you’d been there . . . If you’d seen what she did to the boy in her house, you’d know she is Tabiti.”

  “Tabiti? Why would our goddess come as a Judean?” He looked around, clasped my shoulder, and lowered his voice. “My friend, t
his woman has the same plague that killed hundreds in Jerusalem. Our orders were to kill those too weak to travel.” He removed his hand from my shoulder and drew his dagger, taking a step toward my goddess.

  “No!” I gripped his wrist. “I don’t know why Tabiti came as a Judean, but you won’t touch her.”

  “Will you?” His insinuation was an insult.

  I answered through gritted teeth. “Tabiti is the goddess of hearth and wealth. She rewards purity and fidelity—”

  “I know to whom we pray, Idan. Answer my question. What happens when—if—this woman recovers?” Azat held open the tent flap and examined her more closely. “She could be beautiful if not burning with fever and writhing with chills.” He dropped the flap. “Can you remain faithful to Zoya with Tabiti in your tent?”

  I lifted my chin. “Tabiti will help me remain faithful to Zoya.”

  Azat squeezed the back of his neck. “I’m not going to talk you out of this, am I?”

  “She is Tabiti, Azat. I’m sure of it.”

  He sighed. “All right, but we wait to tell the men until they’ve had plenty of wine tonight. They obey us without question, but some of the unmarried ones will struggle to leave a woman untouched—goddess or not.”

  Since we were the first regiment to return from plunder, I sent out six hunting parties to help provide the camp’s evening meal. Four returned with multiple deer, and I exchanged a triumphant glance with Azat. Tabiti’s blessings had already begun.