42
NEBUZARADAN STEPPED STIFFLY out of his helicopter, an enormous handkerchief protecting his nose and mouth from the dust. He had eliminated the Egyptian nuisance with a single machine gun, mowing down the outlaws matter-of-factly from above, with his own two hands, reaping his crop. It was more like pest control than a massacre. There were some two or three hundred Egyptian troops, merely a symbolic annoyance sent by Pharaoh. In effect, the Babylonians executed a bunch of Egyptian criminals who would have had to be killed anyway, and in so doing probably even saved Pharaoh a little money.
And all the ministers and officials of the King of Babylon came and sat at the Middle Gate to judge the defectors who were now trickling out of the breach in the walls. And Nebushazban, too, returned after a short absence, promoted to the rank of Rab-mag, chief of the magi; he hovered in his own helicopter over the Holyland complex, whose demolition he’d overseen personally during his previous stay in Jerusalem, and he was astonished to see that the compound he’d razed to the ground with his own dynamite had been completely rebuilt. The city in which he’d resided for some three years, along with his comrade Nebuzaradan, and which had practically become a second home for him—he’d even considered settling there for good, having himself appointed as a local pasha—seemed to him, perhaps because of the stifling summer heat, a completely different place. The atmosphere in a city just prior to its being sacked and burned was heavy and oppressive and all too familiar to him. State policies had to be implemented—that was clear. It was awful, but also just. He knew that the Babylonians would be despised and fought, but, as the king said, the Judeans had asked for it.
Nebuchadnezzar offered food and drinks to the defectors, and the next day he sent them to demolish the walls of their own city, each and every man receiving a brand-new five-kilo sledgehammer. He instructed the defectors to work diligently, even as stones were cast down from above by the erstwhile relatives and friends of the defectors. I was fond of their king—his tax was barely two-thirds of what Moab and Sidon paid—and despite all that, what did he do? He ran off to Pharaoh. I gave him a discount, and he insulted me and rebelled against me! No, I don’t get it. We had a personal contract between us, an oath, and he broke the contract, Nebuchadnezzar said. I’m obliged to act in accordance with what was stipulated in the contract—if I don’t, I’ll be going against my word, and all the other contracts I made with the kings of these lands will immediately become null and void. I act for the sake of our children and the women of Babylon, and in all my other kingdoms as well, he said. So—what else can we do? We’ll raze their temples and their city, we’ll cause as much damage as possible, we’ll remove that ridiculous king of theirs with all his tattoos, we’ll put him in handcuffs and whisk away that human obelisk to where he deserves to be—here, between the rivers. We’ll plant him here like a tree. We’ll plant him at my place in the garden like a Persian orange tree, he said. And a distant memory came to mind, from a time back who knew when: he’s riding behind his father on a black horse, and a hand stretches back and offers him one orange slice after another, and the scent of citrus sweeps over the King of Babylon.
After you’re done with the buildings, send them into exile. This time I mean all of them—maybe leave only a few hundred, to clear the rubble and bury the dead. We’ll send a fresh shipment home; they’ll be nicely received by the earlier exiles. We’ve shown enough understanding—there’s a limit to my benevolence. A city without a river, the king said to Nebuzaradan and Nergal-Sharezer and the rest of the ministers, why, that’s ridiculous! This city in summer is a furnace surrounded by a wall, Nebushazban said. It’s as hot there as a pot of slow-cooking jam. It’s going to be a nightmare for you, Sire, but I guess we can’t always choose which city to sack. Shall we go, Sire? he asked. But Nebuchadnezzar said, I’m staying here, in Riblah. I’m already an old man, he said, even though he was barely fifty. You’re all grown up now; you know what to do. So—enough, that’s it, the king abruptly told his ministers. Strike up the band.
* * *
AND ALL THE MINISTERS OF BABYLON descended upon Jerusalem, this time not in smart service cars but in helicopters. And Nebuzaradan told his adjutant, Pass me a box of matches and some red wine. I mean a box of those big kitchen matches, okay? And in the meantime, why not aim a cannonball at the wall over there? Soften it up for me, so the battering rams will have an easier time—punch some holes in the breach for me. I want them to start getting an idea of what they’re up against, okay? We’ll release them from their suffering. And all the ministers of Babylon plugged their ears with their fingers.
All over the city, sirens were heard, as well as a ringing like a giant alarm clock. There were detectors on the walls that were sensitive to the slightest movement, and, like a motorcycle alarm that starts beeping whenever a cat passes by, the walls shouted at every hammer blow, at every patrol, at every direct hit, every head butt from the battering ram. A wall is a skin, Nergal-Sharezer told his troops, and, as with human flesh, there are hard and soft spots in it, spots that allow for entry and spots that don’t. For example, good luck getting in through the heel. It’s hard, it’s dried out, it’s too thick. You’ve got to find a soft spot, like the flesh behind the ear, or maybe sneak into the ear itself! A city under siege is like someone who’s shut his eyes, stopped up his ears and nostrils, tightened his asshole, and is grinding his teeth. If you want to get in, you need to start by wrenching his jaw open and then tapping through his mouth, tooth by tooth. There will be some strong teeth, undoubtedly, but there’s always at least one cavity, maybe filled in and maybe not. That’s the master plan: we enter through the rot. And there’s always something rotten, always. We take advantage of plaque, of apathy and negligence. And we’ve got to slip in carefully, stealthily. If the patient feels us burrowing in, he’s naturally going to pull out his toothbrush—we need to make sure that, by the time that occurs to him, we’re already in the city, Nergal-Sharezer summarized. We don’t have much time—it’ll be very hot here soon: you know what you’ve got to do. We’ve been in this sort of situation many times over. Don’t expect a pep talk; we all want to get back home as soon as possible. And someone asked, So where’s the hole in the rotten tooth? And Nergal-Sharezer pointed and said: There. Over there, there’s a breach in the wall. Eight hundred inhabitants of the city have already trickled through to us, most of them relatives of the exiled from last time. We’ll give them hammers to break down the wall for us, and whoever is up to the task will receive a one-way ticket to Babylon on the light rail. We’ve also received information about a prophet still being sheltered inside Jerusalem, he said, rising to his feet: The city’s in the palm of his hand, apparently, and they say he’s actually on our side. Here’s a photo; try to take him alive and bring him back in one piece, okay? He could be useful later on. Does he have a price on his head? the master of archers asked, and Nergal-Sharezer stared at him and said, Sure, there’s a small reward, and it’s your head, Mr. Archer. Look how lucky you are, you got your prize in advance!
43
EBED-MELECH THE ETHIOPIAN raced on all fours in the oppressive dry heat, his tongue lolling out. A large white angel spread its wings out over the city, and he caught sight of it, though only its backside. He left the king’s house and sprinted to Benjamin Gate; there, he knew, Zedekiah was sitting and observing the tightening siege, together with Tukulti and the Judean ministers. From their place up high, they watched the defeated dribbling toward the Chaldeans—two at a time, or four or six or seven. The entire city is clearing out, Baalgezer said anxiously. Let them, let them dribble away, Zedekiah fumed: The animals that are not clean, he quoted mockingly—well, don’t worry, after the Babylonians serve them up grilled, no one will want to flee anymore.
Through his binoculars, Zedekiah saw a Babylonian helicopter making its descent, and he had the feeling that the person who’d step out of the chopper would be none other than the legendary wine drinker Nebuzaradan. The Babylonian cannons were arrayed equidi
stant from one another. They’d already breached the large outer wall that encircled greater Jerusalem—from Ramot to Gilo and from Givat Shaul to Abu Tor—using the bulldozers they’d requisitioned, the same bulldozers that had been used to build the wall in the first place and were still in use. Now the siege had gripped the walls of the Old City itself. Zedekiah suddenly had a good feeling, a sense that what he feared most wouldn’t happen, that this was the high-water mark of the Babylonian invasion, but that the tide would soon turn and surely things would work out for the best: Jerusalem would be saved, as it had been saved from the Assyrians. He imagined the ensuing elation, all the high spirits in the wake of such high tension, when peace would be declared and people would rush into the streets, jumping for joy. And he told his ministers: Don’t worry about it; this is as far as they’ll get. God will fight for us, he will send us a sign, you’ll see. And Zedekiah remembered how he had once dreamed that he won the lottery, he’d guessed all the numbers, and celebrated his good fortune for the rest of the night. Now he went on standing on a rock there and quoting fitting verses from the book of Kings; truly he felt the power of prophecy swelling within him, and his voice rose and spread in all directions, truly without limits: No, Zedekiah said, the invader shall not come into this city or shoot an arrow there, he will not come before it with a shield or cast up a siege ramp against it. By the way that he came, by the same he shall return, he shall not come into this city, says the Lord. For I will defend this city to save it, for my own sake and for the sake of my servant David. That night, Zedekiah said persuasively, Then the angel of the Lord set out and struck down one hundred and eighty-five thousand in the camp of the Babylonians; when morning dawned, they were all dead. And just after his prophecy, when his eyes were glued to his royal binoculars, Ebed-Melech leaped on him, wailing and lightly scratching the king’s arms through his long, tattoo-hiding sleeves.
Down! Zedekiah shouted. But Tukulti understood Ebed’s wails. And the “dog” and the dog both raced off in the direction of the court of the guard. Ebed-Melech led Tukulti, while Zedekiah lumbered behind them. The new crown that had been cast for him after Jehoiachin was sent into exile slid off his head, forcing him to wear it on his arm. And on their way they bumped into Eliazar and Noa, who were being taken to the palace at Zedekiah’s command, even though Noa didn’t want to go and insisted that they be brought back to their old home in Abu Tor. Her heart told her that the destruction would be particularly harsh inside the walls of the Old City, the walls that appeared on maps like a big bull’s-eye beckoning an arrow to come and embed itself there, tearing Jerusalem apart.
Eleven-year-old Eliazar clung to his father’s sleeve, and Zedekiah knelt for a moment beside him. Eliazar said, I heard what you said, Dad, I was standing up there and I heard you say an angel would come and deliver us, and I saw the angel in the sky, covering the city from one hill to another—but Zedekiah wasn’t listening. And Eliazar said, Dad, I’ve got a question: Where’s Babylon? And Zedekiah said, Babylon? Babylon is far, far away, and then he corrected himself and said, No, there is no Babylon, actually, there’s no such place. And Noa couldn’t stand the sight of him anymore, and started to walk away. Zedekiah thought mistakenly that she intended to abandon Eliazar with him, and he got up and followed her; she went on walking, and he stuck behind her, though he kept his pace leisurely, since he didn’t want to give anyone the impression that he was chasing after a woman. And all of a sudden Eliazar was beside her, so Zedekiah turned away and continued on his way to the court of the guard. He didn’t notice that his crown had slipped off onto the pavement.
* * *
DOWN BELOW, IN THE COURT OF THE GUARD, Jeremiah’s mouth was by this point just beneath the surface of muck, emitting bubbles now and then, though his nose and both of his eyes (shut tight) and his brow were still in the air, and the locket around his neck with the wrinkled almond inside was floating on the muck and glittering in the dark. Tukulti saw the glitter and barked to Ebed-Melech and said, Take thirty dogs with you from the kennels and pull the prophet Jeremiah up from the pit before he dies. And the dogs threw a looped rope into the pit, which they knotted together out of rags and worn-out clothes that were scattered in the court of the guard. Ebed-Melech, who hadn’t uttered a word of human speech for years, called down into the pit in a slightly florid Hebrew, Ho, good sir, put now these worn garments and rags under thine armholes! But Jeremiah couldn’t hear him, and stared at the rope made of rags, wondering whether this was some sort of joke. All the same, he worked his arms free from the muck—it was like lifting weights, he thought—and fixed the loop of rags under his armpits, and thirty dogs mustered their strength and slowly pulled and raised and drew the prophet out. And they let him lie there and catch his breath in the court of the guard, next to the mouth of the pit. He looked more like a big turd than a human being: his body was entirely sheathed in muck and bundled in a coat of mud save for his eyes, which kept blinking, but they, too, were filthy. As he lay there in the corner by the rim of the pit, the dogs stared at him and cautiously wagged their tails. Zedekiah came and saw Jeremiah’s state and gave orders that he be hosed down. Jeremiah didn’t respond to the steady stream of water that struck him and rolled him over in the yard; in his mind, he was somewhere else entirely, far away, protected, surrounded by a wall and another wall and another wall and another wall. And then someone came up to him and removed his clothing and wiped away the remains of the muck with the same rags that had made up his life rope. And then they clothed him, also with the tatters that had served as his rope. But he paid no attention. He was little more than a corpse, wet, cast aside, spiritless, Godless, without angels, without prophecy, without thoughts, without memories, fatherless, motherless, sisterless, homeless, without relatives, without friends, without words, with no willpower of his own. He’d been in the pit and had been drawn out of the pit, but the pit remained within him; a pit had been drawn out of a pit, and muck was rising from inside the pit. Now there’s no Jeremiah but only muck, now there is only muck.
An hour later, they brought Jeremiah—who still lay there at the foot of the palace, not far from the yawning pit—black coffee and half a pita, and he drank and ate a bit, and the waiter from the palace restaurant who’d brought him the food whispered in his ear, His Majesty Zedekiah wants to see you, it’s urgent. And Jeremiah said, No, no one asks for me anymore, but the waiter insisted, It’s urgent, the fate of the entire city is in the balance. And Jeremiah, who couldn’t quite stand on his own feet, was placed on a large trolley used to distribute food and wine in restaurants, which the waiter brought from the royal storeroom. Thus was the prophet wheeled across the palace’s forecourt and brought into the third entrance and taken up in the service elevator. In a room within a room within a room was Zedekiah, naked apart from boxer shorts. He was soaked in sweat, and all of his clothes were scattered about the room, and one of his fingers was stuck between the covers of some book like a mouse caught in a trap. There were some yellowish snacks strewn over the floor. And the king turned to Jeremiah and asked, Have you found me, O my enemy? And Jeremiah said, I haven’t found anything. And the king said: Jeremiah, Jeremiah, listen to me. They’re very close, they’ve all come back; all the Babylonian officials and Rab-mag are sitting at the gate and sorting through my citizens, and they’ve started ramming the Old City wall. And as Jeremiah’s gaze lingered over the king’s burly body, he told him in a voice that could hardly be heard, My heart is shattered within me. And the king shouted: What? What’s that? And Jeremiah said, Mattaniah, I myself no longer know what I think, but I remember what I’ve told you in the past. Every time I open my mouth, someone pounces on me and wants to kill me. And Zedekiah swore an oath to Jeremiah, saying, Okay, okay, on the name of the Lord, the Almighty who forged our souls, I will not put you to death or hand you over to the men who seek your life. And Jeremiah said: It doesn’t matter, I’m already of no consequence. Don’t bother swearing anything, Mattaniah. Listen to me, just listen, please. It�
�s very simple: if you go out to the King of Babylon’s men and surrender, your life will be spared and the city won’t be burned down—you and your household will be allowed to live. But if you don’t go out to the Babylonians, then this city will fall into the hands of the Chaldeans, and they will burn it with fire, and you … you won’t escape.
Jeremiah peeked for a moment at the book that held the king’s finger, but he was unable to identify the author. Zedekiah said: I get it, I get it, you’re right, but what, but what can I do? I’m in a bind, you understand? I’m afraid of the Jews who have deserted to the Chaldeans’ side—I might be handed over to them, and they would abuse me. How am I to go outside the walls? The Jewish deserters will grab me, and then who knows what’ll happen. I smell a lynch mob, okay? They’re armed with heavy hammers, they’ve been starved, you know how cruel they are—they’ll eat me alive, they’ll tear me to pieces … They’ll chew off my head! he screamed, and Jeremiah said, with a confidence that he no longer possessed: No, don’t worry; no, don’t worry. The Babylonians won’t hand you over to the mob. And even if they do, he added, it doesn’t matter. Don’t you get it? It doesn’t matter anymore. You don’t matter, I don’t matter. Our clutching at life at any cost—it’s all finished. You’re clinging to a match while a tidal wave is advancing toward you. Let go of the match, Mattaniah. Enough—everything all around you is soaked through and through, the entire area is doomed to flood, the Babylonians aren’t going to leave, they won’t leave. And Jeremiah grasped the king’s free hand and pressed his forehead against Zedekiah’s, saying, You’ve got to get dressed and go out and give yourself up, and he started gathering the king’s scattered black clothes and tried to get him into them.
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