The Witch of Babylon

by Dorothy J. Mcintosh

  Tomas, not to be outdone by me, offered his opinion. “Sheep were more valuable because they were used for sacrifice?”

  Ward drank some Perrier and stood up. He liked to gesture when he spoke, and sitting down obviously cramped his style. “You have to put the story in its social context,” he said. “Most of the Judean Hebrew people of that time were nomads, shepherds. Their natural territorial enemies were city dwellers. Cain is a farmer and therefore linked not with the nomadic life but with settled communities. Later in Genesis you’ll notice that, after his exile, Cain became the father of cities. He symbolized the cities that Genesis described as cesspits of sin—a notion, by the way, that carried through to modern times. ‘Nature’ is celebrated and cities are regarded as a necessary evil.”

  Ward remained standing with his back against the patio table, forcing us to look up to him. “I’m taking a bit of artistic license there. Authors of the Hebrew Bible wanted to forge a great nation. They succeeded brilliantly. But that necessitated emphasizing the menace from their enemies—Canaanite and Assyrian city builders.”

  “I think you’re taking a lot of liberties. It’s all open to interpretation. You can’t prove any of that.” Tomas seemed miffed by Ward’s claim. If he’d once studied for the priesthood, his faith in traditional teachings probably remained strong.

  Ward gestured with his glass. I could hear the ice cubes tinkle as the water sloshed. “Genesis is a parable written by a nomadic people threatened by city-states. Read the earlier Mesopotamian version of Cain and Abel. It’s completely different. In it the two protagonists were a shepherd king and a farmer king. But the dispute was over a woman, not gifts to God. A much more believable reason for a fight.”

  I knew Samuel had ascribed to this view. He believed myths were not made up but originated from real events, the flood tale being a perfect example. Before the advent of writing, information could only be passed down orally, and the raw information that was vital for future generations had to be expressed in the most dramatic way possible—through poetry. The rhymes and tempo of poetry made the stories easier to recall.

  Ward broke into my thoughts. “Getting back to Nahum, when I began my study of his book, I asked a writer friend to review it for me. It’s not that well known; he’d never heard of it before. So he approached it with a completely fresh viewpoint. The first surprise was how much he loved it. He said it was poetic, utterly convincing. But it also confused him because the whole tone and thrust of the work changed significantly after the first chapter. That confirmed what I believe and what other scholars have argued.”

  “What would that be?” I asked.

  “The entire first chapter and the first two verses of the second chapter were written long after the original work and not by Nahum at all. Interestingly, the King James Bible supports this by beginning the second chapter at what is the Hebrew Bible’s Chapter 2:2.”

  A few raindrops fell. The sky turned slate gray. A deluge threatened. We scrambled to get up and rushed into the kitchen. “I guess sitting outside wasn’t the best idea after all,” Ward said. “Let’s move upstairs to the library.”

  Ward ushered us into the front room on the first floor. The rear wall of his library was stacked with books: tomes on art and New York photography; old volumes smelling of must, gilt Hebrew script on their spines; an entire shelf devoted to symbolism in religious art; the odd novel. I picked out The Great Gatsby and leafing through it saw that it was a signed first edition.

  I took advantage of the break in the conversation to find the restroom on the second floor. It was furnished with a separate tub and shower, the shower head fastened to the ceiling to let the spray flow like a waterfall. An arty ceramic basin, electric tooth-cleaning gear a dentist would envy, hand-decorated Milano ceramic tile, wide pine plank floors, spotless white towels.

  I glanced at the time and swore out loud when I realized I’d forgotten the appointment with Reznick, the criminal attorney. There’d simply been too much on my mind. I hastily put in a call to his office, but getting no answer, had to be satisfied leaving a voice mail.

  As I turned to leave I glanced out the window. A silver Range Rover was parked directly across the street. Its tinted windows prevented me from seeing who was inside. My stomach dropped. I cranked open the window and could hear the motor running and smell the exhaust. I had to think of a way to check the vehicle out without disclosing the problem to Jacob Ward.

  When I returned, I found him standing in front of the fireplace in full performance mode, expounding on some fine point of biblical lore.

  “I think one of the guests for your next meeting might be about to arrive,” I said. “I hope we’re not taking too much of your time.”

  He glanced at his watch. “If they’re here, they’re far too early; I’ve got over an hour yet. How do you know?”

  “There’s an SUV idling outside your house.”

  He walked over to the front window, peered out, then laughed. “It’s five-thirty. That’s my neighbor Lawrence Barry. My kids call him Larry Barry, the thirty-minute man. He shows up every day at this time and sits in his car for exactly half an hour.”

  “Just to get a parking space?”

  “You can’t park until 6 P.M. A guy on our block once made the mistake of taking that spot about five minutes before Larry showed up. The man had just moved in; he had no clue what a bad idea that was. Every morning he’d notice some kind of new insult. A scratch near the door handle, a Coke can thrown on the hood, dog dirt on the bumper. Every day, always something. After a couple of weeks he wised up and it’s been Larry’s spot ever since. I leave my car at Columbia and take the subway home. I can’t be bothered with all that nonsense.”

  Ward left to refresh our drinks and returned with a pitcher of ice water and a plate of cookies. He handed them around. “These are the best. Dark chocolate peanut butter chip. Levain’s Bakery. It’s always nice to have something sweet to nosh on when you get that late afternoon hunger jag.”

  He had an undeniable talent for putting people at ease. I could see why he was a popular lecturer. But I picked up on a lot of false notes. He was putting on an act. I wondered what kind of person hid beneath.

  I glanced over at Laurel. She looked pale and seemed restless, didn’t smile when I caught her eye. I asked her how she was feeling. She said she was getting a headache but could hold out for a while yet.

  Ward appeared not to notice and carried on. “Nahum means ‘comforter.’ That’s a little sly. Whom is he comforting? Not the Assyrians. You might think Judahites were reassured to hear how their enemies met such a terrible fate. But the work also carried a veiled warning for them, terrible threats about the consequences of worshiping foreign gods.”

  Ward looked around to make sure he still held our attention. You could almost hear the drum roll in the distance. “I believe the Book of Nahum was not a prophecy but an eyewitness account of the siege and destruction of Nineveh by the Medes and Babylonians. As I said before, the first chapter was added on much later.

  “You can imagine that’s not a popular opinion, but I have an interesting ally,” Ward continued. “The King James version of the Bible puts the entire Book of Nahum in the future tense. Probably its translators felt that the Hebrew text, much of it in the present tense, didn’t sound ‘prophetic’ enough. And there are a number of other cues that reveal Nahum’s direct knowledge of the battle.

  “The first two lines of 2:4 refer to red shields and to soldiers wearing red. This specifically describes the Medes. According to Babylonian accounts, Cyaxares, King of the Medes, led the battle supported by the Ummamandu, a tribe of Scythians from the north, and the Babylonians. The Medes were fierce fighters, known to wear red to hide their battle wounds. This kept the morale of their own men up and projected an image of invincibility to their enemies.

  “Nahum’s line in verse 2:7, ‘The gates of the river are opened and the palace is dissolved,’ is often quoted as proof that the book is a prophecy.” He tu
rned to Tomas. “Maybe you can help us out here.”

  For once Tomas seemed pleased to be included. “So far, no material evidence of a flood in Nineveh has been found. Fire, yes— the city was extensively burned. Only five of Nineveh’s fifteen city gates have been excavated: Halzi, Shamash, Adad, Nergal, and Mashki. Armaments and skeletons found at the Halzi and Adad gates made some archaeologists jump to the conclusion that those locations represented the main thrust of the attack. But we know two gates existed on either side of the point where the river Khosr entered the Nineveh precinct. It’s entirely possible these sites—the river gates—were breached first, allowing the armies to invade the city proper. That’s probably what the line means.”

  “Something that specific suggests a hands-on account, not a prophecy,” Ward agreed. “To sum up, here’s who I think Nahum was, whether or not that was his real name. A gifted Hebrew scribe deported as a young man to Nineveh to work for the notorious tyrant Ashurbanipal. The king had assembled the great library of tablets excavated at Nineveh, the vast majority of which were copied from Babylonian texts, so we know he needed many talented scribes. The Book of Nahum borrows Assyrian words, providing further proof. Nahum’s own ancestors probably went through the terror of Assyrian attacks on Samaria. That alone would explain the almost personal sense of hatred in his writing.”

  I jumped in with a question. “When Nineveh fell, wouldn’t Nahum have been an old man by the standards of the day?”

  “Yes,” Ward said. “Probably over sixty and without many years left.” He used his fingers to tick off his next points. “First, on one level, the book is a letter giving Nahum’s contacts in Judah an eyewitness report of the battle. Second, it sends a message to the people of Judah warning them against worshiping idols and foreign gods. Third, it has another function—to counter the enormous power of the goddess Ishtar over people’s hearts and minds. Fourth, the book satisfies Nahum’s own need to express his feelings of revenge. He positively gloats over Nineveh’s downfall.”

  None of us, of course, mentioned the fifth purpose: Nahum’s hidden message about the location of Ashurbanipal’s treasure.

  Twenty-two

  After thanking Ward for his time we left the house and walked toward Ninth, each one of us lost in thought, mulling over what he’d told us.

  Tomas broke the silence. “I’m not sure I agree with all his points, but Ward was right about one thing: the engraving was written after the fall of Nineveh.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “It dates to 614 B.C.”

  “I didn’t think dating methods were quite that precise.” “Samuel told us the inscription at the bottom of the engraving states the date—in Akkadian terms, of course.”

  Still chafing at Tomas’s earlier attitude, I tried to think of a way to avoid spending time with the Zakars. Unexpectedly, Laurel supplied the excuse.

  “I’m getting a migraine,” she said. “It was all I could do to sit there at the end. My vision is blurry. When the pain hits I’ll be a train wreck. It’s this heavy humidity.”

  “Can you take anything for it?”

  “My pills, but they’re at home.”

  “Can’t we go to a pharmacy?” I said.

  In less than a minute her face had gone from pale to chalk white. “I’d have to get a prescription.”

  “Best you go,” Ari said. “We can hail a cab for you on Ninth. We’ll go to the Waldorf and meet you both there later.”

  I escorted Laurel back to the penthouse, keeping my eye out for any sign we were being followed. When we reached the building, Laurel headed upstairs while I stayed behind. I leaned against the fence of the little triangle of park across the road; the location gave me a good view of the stretch of sidewalk and surrounding area. I stayed for a full twenty minutes without detecting any sign of Eris. Laurel was stretched out on the family room sofa when I walked in.

  “Any better now?”

  “My head is, thanks to the pills, for the time being anyway. Now my feet are killing me. I should never have worn these heels.”

  “That’s something I can fix. Do you have any lotion?”

  She fished in her handbag for a tube of cream and held it out to me. Closing her eyes, she leaned back on the pillows. Her feet were bare. I could see bright red marks threatening to turn into blisters around her heels and baby toes. I squirted the cream into my palms. It had a pleasant, fruity smell like ripening apples. Her skin felt damp and hot to the touch and I took care to use slow, gentle movements. The corners of her lips turned up with pleasure. Without opening her eyes, she said, “You have no idea how wonderful that feels, John.”

  She sighed and swung her legs down to the floor. “Detective Gentile left a message for me. They’re releasing Hal’s body tomorrow, so I’ve got to make arrangements and get the lawyers to lever out some funds for a funeral. There’s a lot to do.”

  “That’s fine. Why don’t you start while I work on the game? It may not take as long as you think.” I undid the first couple of buttons of my shirt, still feeling hot from being outside. Laurel had set the air conditioning to a perfect level; there wasn’t a hint of chill. I spent the next hour struggling with Hal’s words before peeking in on her. She was still on the phone, toying with something on the desk while she talked. A ring, it looked like.

  In the kitchen the stainless steel stove still had the original cellophane wrap over its knobs. I knew Hal had lived on takeout, and I guessed that on the rare occasions she cooked, Laurel was strictly a microwave artist.

  I found a teacup full of moldy sprouts, a wheel of Camembert, and a carton of Perrier in the fridge. My intention had been to whip up some salad, so I discarded that idea. I got out the cheese and put it on a fancy crystal cake plate. In contrast to the refrigerator, the cupboards were stocked full of popcorn, tins of cashews, jars of Greek olives, Russian Sevruga caviar, capers, smoked Malpeque oysters, packages of cookies and crackers, tinfoil bags of tostada chips, some dark chocolate.

  The wine cooler supplied a nice bottle of Schloss Lieser Riesling. Dry and crisp. I opened two different packages of crackers and arranged them around the cheese. A glass bowl matching the cake plate was just the right size for the olives. I opened the oysters and put them in a bowl, set the chocolate on a plate.

  In the dining room I filched sterling silver forks and knives from one of the drawers and a linen tablecloth and napkins with an inscription in Latin, the initials HRH embroidered around the edges in gold. I added a candelabra with three ivory tapers. With all the dinner things piled on a tray, I went to the terrace and laid out a nice spread on one of the tables.

  Touches of lavender tinted the evening sky. I wiped the table and chairs, still wet from the afternoon rain, and held my hand around the candles to light them. Mercifully, they didn’t go out. Some solar lamps, a few shrubs, and potted plants were arranged near the balustrade. As I turned to go, I noticed an emperor moth fluttering over to rest on a lamp globe, its wings beating a slow harmony, folding and opening. Only the females fly at night. Astounding that a moth was able to fly to these heights.

  Laurel didn’t seem to notice me when I came back into the study. “Join me for dinner on the terrace?”

  I held out my arm and led her outside. Her face flushed when she saw the table. “How sweet of you.” I poured some wine and we clinked our glasses.

  “To you,” I said and put my glass down. A little wine dribbled down the side and left a mark on the tablecloth. I heard Hal’s mother shriek from her grave.

  “Did you make any headway?”

  “I found a funeral home to look after things, and the lawyers are releasing enough to pay for it. That’s a huge chunk off my mind. Now I’ll have to let people know.”

  She walked over and leaned against the railing. Lights were coming on all over the city now, a million stars in the urban galaxy. Farther out, the flat, murky expanse of the Hudson made its presence felt by the absence of light. Tall buildings glowed gold in the waning su
nlight above ribbons of luminescence marking the verticals and horizontals of the avenues and streets; acid scarlets, blues, and greens shone from the neon signs. The street noise floating up to us was greatly subdued. The gargoyle, coiled in deep shadow, surveyed the city from its perch as though summoning its strength to spring on unsuspecting bodies below.

  “John, I’m leaving. I need to get away from this game of Hal’s. It’s your issue, not mine, and I’m tired of it. There’s so much on my mind, I don’t have the energy for anything else. Wherever it leads has nothing to do with me anyway.”

  “Unfortunately, the alchemy group believe you’re involved.”

  “I won’t let them run my life. Last time I checked I was a twenty-four-year-old woman capable of making her own decisions.”

  “But we already agreed you can’t stay here.”

  “I know. My friend finally got in touch. She’ll put me up for a couple of days.”

  “That’s great. Where does she live?”

  “Near New Haven. She commutes to the city a couple of days a week. She’s picking me up later tonight.”

  I would miss spending time with her, but things would be a whole lot easier if I had only myself to worry about.

  “You’ve gotten obsessed with this whole thing. You should drop it. Can’t you find somewhere to go away for a while too?”

  I thought back to the chase at the Port Authority. “They’d find me anyway.”

  She ran her fingers through her hair and sighed. “I think you secretly like the adventure. You said you’d hand the engraving over to the FBI. Is that really true? The money you could get—it must be pretty tempting.”

  “Tempting for a fool. The thing’s hotter than a branding iron. A dealer with a long history and very discreet international clients might pull off a sale like that, but I’m not there yet.”