By the Waters of Babylon

by Mesu Andrews

  Chapter 22

  Idan, Wilderness on the Euphrates River

  “I will make them abhorrent and an offense to all the kingdoms of the earth,

  a reproach and a byword, a curse and an object of ridicule, wherever I banish them.”

  -Jeremiah 24:9

  I stood on the banks of the Euphrates, casting a long shadow over still waters. My regiment made camp for the sixteenth night of our eighteen-day journey. I still hadn’t told anyone we were only placing captives in three cities. I’d kept the plan vague during the two-day preparation in Rezeph, giving only the name of our first destination—Sippar—a city governed by Meshach, one of the Jewish men the king mentioned.

  A twig snapped behind me, and I whirled, ready to fight. Azat slid down the slippery riverbank, his crutch flying into the air. I dropped my dagger and caught him before he tumbled into the Euphrates. He was laughing hysterically by the time my heart started beating again.

  I wanted to be angry, but . . . “You are insane!” Shoving him to the ground, I plopped down and laughed beside him.

  “You’d be insane, too, if you had to ride in a camel’s sedan with two women for two weeks.” He was right, of course, and the comment sent us into more hysterics.

  Two weeks’ travel on high alert had driven all of us to the edge of sanity. I’d sent two spies to follow Nebuzaradan’s secret messenger, but neither had returned to report. Now, only four days until we reached Sippar, I needed to accept that my spies were either traitors or dead. Not only was Nebuchadnezzar the most brilliant military mind in the world, but his general—a man with no honor—had also proven my superior.

  My laughter wound down as reality weighed heavily. I had led my troops into an uninhabited wilderness with two thousand captives, dwindling supplies, and a wounded best friend who was becoming too enthralled with a foreign god.

  “We’re almost there, Idan.” Azat grasped my shoulder and shook it. “Our men are well trained and capable. We’ll meet any obstacle that comes.” His encouragement felt forced and patronizing.

  I ignored him, listening instead to the captives’ songs that had been a constant balm, day and night. Harps and lyres, timbrels and drums. My soldiers’ mouth harps added a Scythian twang to the unique Zion songs, and I closed my eyes, enjoying what had been my only salvation on this journey. It soothed and calmed—but so much more. Within three days of leaving Rezeph, those suffering from plague symptoms—both captives and soldiers—began showing dramatic improvements. The kind of improvements that should have taken weeks.

  I glanced at Azat as he leaned back on strong arms and marveled again at his recovery. Eyesight completely restored, his only lingering impairment was a right foot that dragged behind him. I didn’t dare think on it too long.

  Reaching into my waist pouch, I retrieved my mouth harp and placed it between my front teeth. Breathing in and out, I gently tapped my finger against the reed, making the familiar sounds I’d played since my uncle taught me as a boy. I remembered happier times with Uncle Anach, an intellectual more skilled with mind than sword. Never married, he loved me like his own, and because Father was jealous of our kinship, he sent him to distant lands to expand Scythia’s culture. When Anach returned with an affinity for Greek gods, my father wanted him dead—by my hand.

  “Aaahhh!” Peace destroyed, I threw my harp into the river, sniffing back emotion as if still holding the bloody knife.

  “How can I help you, Idan?” Azat spoke quietly, calmly. When had he become the rational one?

  I let the river sounds massage my heart. “Did I ever tell you Uncle Anach’s story about how the first lyre was made?”

  “Tell me.”

  “It was made by the Greek god Hermes, who stole a cow from his brother Apollo. Hermes slaughtered the cow, cleaned and dried the entrails, and then stretched them as strings over a hollowed-out piece of wood to make lovely sounds that would engender Apollo’s forgiveness.”

  “Do you believe the story?”

  “That’s a dangerous question to ask a Scythian, Azat.” I met my friend’s gaze and held it. “Anach told me that story right before I slit his throat.” Lying back on the grassy bank, I laced my hands behind my head and addressed the real issue between us. “It doesn’t matter that a flock of birds chased away hyenas in Hamath or that captives have been healed of plague in a few days, Azat. We’re Scythians. We don’t believe in Yahweh. Even if I believed personally, I couldn’t bring such a radical change to our people after taking my father’s throne. Our people would rebel and our nation spiral out of control.”

  He leaned over me, searching my eyes. “Tell me all of it. What else is bothering you?”

  I could delay the news no longer. “Nebuchadnezzar gave permission to disperse the Jews in only three cities.”

  Betrayal flashed in his eyes, but he tamped it down—like a good soldier. “What if we don’t find Merari’s husband in any of the three—”

  I sat up, ready for battle. “You’re my captain, not her keeper!”

  He inclined his head in calm submission. “You’re my king and my brother, Idan. My loyalty is to you first and always.”

  His devotion pierced me, exposing my pettiness. “We’ll send messengers to every city with a Jewish population to inquire about Merari’s husband, Azat. If he’s alive, we’ll find him.”

  He grabbed his crutch and stood without looking at me. “I need to tell you something I saw in a dream.”

  “A dream?” I laughed, thinking he was kidding. “What are you now, a prophet?”

  But he met my gaze, and I saw no mirth. “Nebuchadnezzar will betray you, Idan. I’ve seen it.”

  “You’ve seen . . . What? How do you know? Wait.” I clenched my teeth. “If it has anything to do with Yahweh, don’t tell me.”

  After another long silence, he climbed the riverbank and left me wondering why Yahweh spoke to a Scythian in his dreams.

  Chapter 23

  Merari, Sippar in Babylon

  “Along the banks of Babylon’s rivers we sat as exiles, mourning our captivity,

  and wept with great love for Zion.

  Our music and mirth were no longer heard, only sadness.

  We hung up our harps on the willow trees.”

  -Psalm 137:1–2

  The morning after Azat mentioned his dream to Idan, the commander woke before dawn and ordered our whole processional to begin its travel day immediately. He seemed driven by an unseen enemy, refusing to stop for our first respite until nearly midday.

  Even then, he shouted at his lieutenants, “No napping under the shade trees! Eat, drink, and get back on the road.” He tapped Mara’s hind quarters, and gave Azat a sardonic grin. “Will you ever rejoin your regiment, or do you plan to ride with women for the rest of your days?”

  I saw the hurt on Azat’s expression, and felt the prickly sting of anger in my cheeks. “How dare you? Azat still can’t bear weight on his right foot. How could he mount a horse?”

  “Be silent, woman!” Azat shouted.

  Stunned and hurt, I handed him the crutch as he climbed from the sedan.

  A smile lit Idan’s face. “Bring the captain’s stallion!”

  When Azat took the crutch, he brushed my fingers, his expression tender and apologetic. By the time he turned around, every man in his hundred-man regiment had lined up on their mounts, saluting as he walked to take his horse’s reins. With each step, I saw his strength return, his chest swell, his shoulders rise. He passed off the crutch to Yermek and held his stallion’s head, pressing his face against the beast’s nose and whispering to it like a lost love. Then, as if he’d never been injured, Azat sprang from one foot onto its back before I could even fear for his safety.

  His whole countenance lit, and he released a war cry. The whole regiment joined him in ear-splitting bass tones, vibrating my chest. I waited for Azat to look at me, but he’d disappeared into the brotherhood of warriors, lost in the world of men I neither liked nor understood. He prodded his horse i
nto a celebratory lap around the processional and took his customary position as rear guard. Idan cast a victorious glance at me, and I shivered.

  Helah patted my hand but I pulled away. I was being ridiculous. Why should I need comfort? I was a married woman. How long had it been since I’d thought of Elon? We’d be searching for him in Babylon soon. How could I tell him about Neriah? The thought pierced me. Yahweh, give me words. I dropped my head, ashamed of my traitorous heart. Azat was a friend, nothing more. His marriage declaration was the impulsive reaction of a wounded warrior, and my emotions were as tumultuous as a summer storm. Even if the unthinkable happened, and I never found Elon, Azat was a Scythian, and I was a part of God’s chosen people. The Law commanded that I remain pure in love and marriage to another of Israel’s chosen.

  Reaching for my harp, I ran my fingers over Elon’s signature, struggling after eleven years to remember his face. Plucking the strings, I returned to the one thing I did remember. The songs of Zion. Always the songs of Zion. In them I could lose myself and remember home. In them I could find the Giver of Music.

  After our midday respite, I returned to my wood-and-string friend who waited for me in the sedan. Our caravan began its march again, and step by step the music rose again, joining captive and captor in this final day of our journey to Babylon.

  Shortly after the respite, Idan turned to face his troops and lifted two fingers to his mouth, releasing the loudest whistle I’d ever heard. “Sippar on the horizon!” he shouted. “Sippar on the horizon!”

  I rose to my knees in the sedan, willing my eyes to see it, but his warrior’s eyes were sharper than mine.

  When I returned to the cushion, Helah reached for my hand. “What awaits us there, Merari? It’s easier to die than to live in the unknown.” Her lips trembled, and I saw more fear in her eyes today than when she faced King Nebuchadnezzar in Riblah.

  She turned away before I could offer comfort, but what comfort had I to give? My fingers refused to play. Not a single harp or lyre was heard. The Scythians marched in silence toward the gates of Sippar where their captives would be dispersed, sold, and separated forever. By the time the sun fell to midafternoon, mud brick buildings and a tall, angular tower had come into view.

  Curiosity conquered fear, and I climbed to my knees to ask Idan, “What’s that tall structure?”

  “It’s a ziggurat, a temple where they worship Marduk, Nebuchadnezzar’s patron god.”

  Ziggurat. Marduk. The unfamiliar terms knocked me back onto the cushions. I clutched my harp, so familiar and beloved in my world. Would there be anything familiar in Babylon? I will forever be a stranger in a distant land. What clothes would I wear? What foods would I eat? Strange varieties of trees lined the road, and farmers harvested a plant with small pods I didn’t recognize.

  I would never again see Judah. The crushing reality felt like a millstone around my neck. Could Yahweh dwell outside Jerusalem? I’d seen Him heal captives of plague while on our march and touch Azat’s body miraculously, but did He dwell among pagans? Yahweh, are You here?

  Our Scythian captors began celebrating as we drew nearer the city, but my countrymen appeared to shrink inside their skin. I saw my fears in their gaping mouths and ricocheting eyes. Idan raised his fist, calling the procession to a halt. The sound of galloping hooves approached, and I stifled a cry, hiding amid the cushions with Helah. A wave of relief washed over me when I saw Azat and the men of Idan’s hundred-man regiment skid to a halt beside us. Mara buckled her legs for our dismount, but Helah reached for my hand. Neither of us were in a hurry to leave the sedan. I peeked over the sides and found the other captives had collapsed on the ground, cautious and wide-eyed like Helah and me.

  Idan gestured wildly as he spoke, seeming revived and excited. “Have the men set up camp outside the city, supply wagons and exiles in the center. Assign three detachments to purchase supplies in Sippar’s market. The citizens may begrudge us adding to their population, but the merchants will be pleased to take our gold and silver.” He nodded to the captives in frightened huddles. “Take them to the river for baths. Perhaps the people of Sippar will accept them more willingly if they’re clean.” He turned to Azat. “Captain, you and Yermek will come with me to meet Sippar’s governor—a Jew named Meshach.”

  “A Jew is governor?” I blurted my astonishment from Mara’s sedan.

  Idan’s stare could have frozen the Euphrates. He returned his attention to his men. “You have your assignments. Sippar is the first of our three cities, so let’s get our supplies, dispense of a third of the exiles, and be on our way to the second city. You’re dismissed.”

  “Three cities?” I said, the implications slowly registering. “Three cities,” I said again as Idan rode away. Panic rose as did my voice, and I screamed—on the verge of hysteria. “Azat, what did he mean by three cities?”

  The man I thought my friend cast a glance over his shoulder and followed his commander without a word. I stared after them, disbelieving. Could I have been so blind? So foolish? Falling back on the cushions, I could barely breathe.

  Helah’s face was ashen. “Merari. My girl. I’m so sorry.”

  Idan’s regiment hurried to their assigned tasks and mobilized the rest of the troops. A Scythian I’d never seen before approached Mara. “Get off the camel.” He grabbed Helah’s arm and dragged her from the sedan.

  I flew at him, trying to rescue my friend, but the mountainous soldier grabbed my wrist and dragged me along with her. “Listen, little harp player, King Nebuchadnezzar said you were deity only until we arrived in Babylon.”

  I stumbled in the soft, black soil, and wondered how it had turned men’s hearts to stone. Why had our peaceful captors suddenly reverted to the monstrous conquerors they’d been in Jerusalem and Riblah?

  “Where are your songs of Zion now?” one of the soldiers shouted as my people bathed, fully clothed, in the muddy river.

  One man hung his harp in a willow tree, but a soldier snatched it off and threw it into the river near him. “Play your harp, old man. Maybe the Babylonians in Sippar will let you live a day longer.”

  Their mocking stung worse than whips, making the harmony we’d experienced on our journey as torturous as the famine, plague, and sword in Jerusalem. How could we have so easily appeased our enemy, when it was the nature of compromise that had carried us into exile?

  O Lord, may I never strum a harp again unless it is to praise You and honor Zion, the city I once called home.

  Chapter 24

  Idan

  “The king appointed Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego administrators

  over the province of Babylon . . . [after their miraculous salvation from the fiery furnace]

  The king promoted Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego in the province of Babylon.”

  -Daniel 2:49; 3:30

  I rode between Azat and Yermek toward Sippar’s city gate, where a man wearing a knee-length, gold-belted robe waited. He raised his right hand in greeting, holding the hem of a patterned cloak draped over his left arm. A thick, hooked nose betrayed his Jewish birth, but the curled and oiled beard proclaimed him thoroughly Babylonian in culture. His position at the city gate boldly declared Scythians weren’t welcome in his city.

  “Greetings, Commander Idan.” Walking toward us, he extended his free hand. “I’m Meshach, Governor of Sippar.”

  I reined my stallion to a halt, ignoring his hand. “How do you know my name, Governor?”

  “The king sent a messenger with word of your imminent arrival.” He took three more steps and grasped my stallion’s bridle. With eyes communicating discretion, he hid a piece of parchment under a leather strap and whispered, “I’m saving your life.”

  He stepped back and assessed Azat and Yermek as if purchasing sheep at the market. “Your troops are more enthusiastic than our businesses are comfortable entertaining. Sippar is the gateway to Babylon, the trading center where the great river splits into five branches. As governor, I must ensure peace inside my walls,
which means keeping any threat of chaos outside.” He peered around me, nodding at the mayhem of shrieking captives and shouting Scythians behind us. “After the long trek across the wilderness, many caravans arrive at Sippar with a surge of energy that is best spent outside our gates. We will provide a loaf of bread for everyone in your procession, Commander, but only small contingents will pass through the gates to purchase supplies.”

  I held his gaze, unsure if I faced a friend or foe. “Your king trusts us, but you don’t, Governor?”

  “It is not my intention to offend, Prince Idan. In fact, I would be honored to have you and your officers join me for a meal this evening in my home. My guards will meet you at the gates by sunset and escort you. We’ll enjoy some Babylonian cuisine and plan the exiles’ placement in Sippar’s businesses, households, and temples.” He offered curt nods and turned to go.

  “What about—”

  “I’ll answer all your questions this evening.” He waved as he walked away, shouting over his shoulder.

  “Should we be honored or insulted?” Azat asked, watching the man disappear into the city’s busy market.

  “Insulted,” Yermek growled.

  I leaned over to stroke my stallion’s neck, lifting the parchment from its hiding place and tucking it under my belt. “We have plenty to do in camp before sunset. Yermek, you ride ahead of Azat and me. Take ten men from our regiment into town to scout the location of the governor’s home. Azat and I will attend the governor’s meal tonight, but I want our men ready if he’s planned treachery.”

  The lieutenant saluted and prodded his stallion into a gallop back to camp. I withdrew the parchment from my belt and held it up. “Governor Meshach is skilled in secrets.” After unfolding it, I read aloud, “King Nebuchadnezzar in league with your father.”