Hadassah

by Tommy Tenney

  He briefly allowed himself to think of his wife and son, back in Palmyra. Now, walking into the cluster of tents that marked the raiders’ hideout, he wondered if he would ever pick up the boy again. The Amalekites were known for being maddeningly fickle captors. They might torture and kill you or just as easily treat you as an honored guest and merely ask for tribute upon your return.

  I’ll be glad to offer tribute on my next time through, thought Sunwadi. Especially since there won’t be a return trip. This disaster had sealed his resolve to stay off the road. His dead companion was the young nephew of a close friend back home. He’d have a hard time explaining that the hard-headed young man had refused to don the proper armor, complaining of the heat, and that his stubbornness had cost him his life.

  A short, fat man with a glistening black beard sauntered forth from the main tent, energetically probing his teeth with the tip of a thick tongue.

  “Who is the leader of this band?” he shouted in accented Sumerian, their native dialect.

  “I am,” Sunwadi replied in a voice made gravelly by the dust.

  The man said nothing but motioned inside with a jerk of his head and led the way into the tent. Sunwadi followed him onto a shadowed carpet of rugs and matched his cross-legged pose. As his eyes adjusted he spied a staggering array of gold and silver adornments, as though the tent were some sultan’s gilded palace. Chains hung from the tent’s seams and support ropes. A small ebony pony stood behind him, inlaid with lapis and jade and filaments of gold. In the far background shone the sulking eyes of a beautiful woman dressed in the provocative clothes of a concubine. He looked away, not daring to indulge his eyes. There was no surer way to be killed than to be caught ogling the head man’s woman. Of that he was certain. He turned at the sound of the man’s voice.

  “My name is Haman. Haman the Agagite. Have you heard of me?”

  He nodded. “Your legend stretches across the land, sire.”

  “And what is your name?”

  “Majiir Sunwadi, sir.”

  “And where are you from?” asked the fat man.

  “Palmyra,” Sunwadi answered.

  “What are you carrying?”

  “The usual. Spices, medicinal herbs, silk swaths, jewelry, foreign trinkets.”

  “Hmmm. Why have I never seen you before? You avoiding me?”

  “Oh no, I am not. In the past I have hired guides who must have regrettably avoided your acquaintance. For whatever selfish reason, I do not know.”

  The man narrowed his eyelids and grinned in response. He obviously liked Sunwadi’s answers. Then, just as quickly, his countenance changed: his eyes grew into bright and beady sapphires, and his teeth clenched reflexively.

  “Tell me, do you conduct business with the Hebrews? You passed through their country. I won’t stand for that.”

  “Oh no. As you said, their land is a passage through which I must cross. But my men and I do nothing more than buy the occasional bit of provision or the right to water our animals. No, we’re headed to Egypt, where the premium prices are.”

  “We’ll see.” The man leaned over, hate and some other unidentifiable emotion undulating in waves across his features. “My men are taking a sample of your wares. If I see anything Jewish-made, I’ll kill you where you sit.”

  The man shouted in another tongue to someone outside. A flap opened and one of the bandits brought in an armful of Sunwadi’s merchandise. He leaned forward and let the baubles fall onto the carpet with a long tinkling sound. Haman began to poke through the pile with a coquettishly wandering index finger, as though only mildly interested in the haul.

  “Nice quality,” he said, although his gaze was only half fixed on the items. “Hah. What is this?”

  He had held up a piece of rosewood inscribed with a curious symbol, a square cross with its ends twisted at right angles to each other.

  “What do you call this insignia?”

  “It has many names, sir, for it is revered by many nations, including Greece, Troy, Egypt. It’s said to have originated in India. The Greeks call it the gammadion. It is the most ancient and powerful emblem known to mankind.”

  “Really. Powerful, you say.” The bandit’s eyes seemed to glitter the more he stared at the sign. “You know, my friend, I have been looking for a suitable icon to adopt as the insignia of our . . . tribe here. This one—well, it intrigues me.”

  “It is yours,” Sunwadi said abjectly.

  “Of course it is. Hey, Oman, what do you think? The Riders of the Twisted Cross!”

  “I like it,” said deep-voiced Oman, a massively shielded warrior standing near the tent entrance. Haman stood and turned to him.

  “Kill the peddler,” he said, without even a look back at Sunwadi. “I don’t want anyone else but us to know where we obtained this.”

  A hand pulled Sunwadi painfully from his seated position by the knot of rope on his wrists. He was yanked to his feet and shoved outside.

  As the blade whistled downward, Sunwadi thought of his wife and son and silently bade them good-bye. The last thing he heard in this world was Haman’s laughter filtering out from the tent’s interior. Then the ground rose up and struck him beside the face, and his world went black.

  6

  PERSIAN PROVINCES—CIRCA 490 BC

  Haman did in fact utilize the strange Indian symbol that had so captivated his imagination. Indeed, his men embraced it with a swiftness and a possessiveness that surprised even him. They began to etch the eerie twisted cross onto their battle gear, paint it onto their garb and even tattoo it onto their skin. And they found, over time, that the unity created by their common image bore out the effect Haman had sought. Their ferocity began to escalate. They fought more savagely. They found, in fact, that they started to seek out battle, to fight more than was needed just to keep themselves alive through piracy.

  At one time they had merely been good enough fighters to scare their prey and protect their loot. No more. Now they began to roam in search of people to attack, whether loaded with bounty or not. Hebrews who fell into their clutches came in for especially bloody treatment. To those they showed no mercy. Whole families were put to the sword without exception, and Haman insisted, with particular emphasis, that even their livestock be destroyed.

  Throughout the region, the name of Haman was spoken with whispers and shivers. Traveling through the area became a nightmare for all but the most well connected and well protected. The sight of a twisted cross scratched or splattered in scarlet paint—or was it blood?—upon a trailside boulder became the emblem of imminent peril.

  One day Haman and his scouts came upon a column of well-armed and disciplined soldiers of an army they did not recognize. From his typical perch atop a limestone cliff, Haman himself watched them make their way. What he saw made his blood run cold. They clearly were not Egyptian. Their ranks were straight, even into the dozens of rows. Their capes and boots were completely clean and utterly alike—woven of what appeared to be gold. The raiment of an empire. He breathed in raggedly. He’d never heard of this powerful force.

  Then he made another jarring observation: the sun was shining off their breastplates.

  These soldiers were armored in metal. He had never seen that before. He turned to his chief warlord and whispered, “We will not attack these men. They are a breed these parts have never seen. I will try to befriend them.”

  He jumped on his horse and sped away down the slope. Moments later, the column’s scout raised his fist and the riders behind him ground to a halt. Ahead of the soldiers waited a man on a beautiful horse, holding out a hand.

  The sizable rider, whose helmet plumage and carriage bespoke high rank, cantered his splendid mount over to the newcomer. After looking him over for a cool minute, the soldier spoke.

  “Would you be Haman, by any chance?”

  Haman could not prevent himself from grinning like a boy at the question. “Yes, I am. And who would you be, revered soldier?”

  “I am Satrap Xeril Arte
mis, of the Royal Empire of Persia.”

  “Persia,” Haman repeated, more out of surprise than an attempt to clarify the word. His shoulders immediately stiffened at the knowledge. Did these men mean him harm? He had certainly plundered his share of Persian convoys, stolen his share of Persian goods.

  The captain laughed. “Do not fret, my good man. We do not come to seek retribution for your crimes against the Persian state, although I hear they are many.”

  “My heart rejoices, most kind satrap.”

  “And I hope to bring it even more joy when you hear the errand upon which I have sought you. I wonder if you have any place to which we might retire and discuss matters privately?”

  Haman’s eyebrows rose in droll agreement at the satrap’s suggestion. He smiled broadly and waved a quick gesture to his men. “I would be honored to host you and your men at our humble desert camp.”

  The two parties rode side by side through the desert—polished Persian legions and ragtag Negev marauders eyeing one another warily for any sign of ambush or treachery. The sun was past its highest point when they reached Haman’s oasis camp.

  Haman’s men dismounted and hurriedly exhumed several amphoras of prized Greek wine seized from a long-ago caravan. The two leaders retired to Haman’s tent as the libations began to flow and spirits to rise.

  Sitting in the relative cool of the bandit’s tent, Satrap Artemis watched his host closely and began to silently reappraise the man. He had not missed a detail upon entering the robbers’ lair—its bristling weapons caches, opulent furnishings, the variety and volume of its plundered spoils. These men may have a ragtag appearance, he concluded, but they are skilled fighters. Despite his familiar and bustling manner, Haman’s narrow eyes bore a cold ruthlessness that also glittered on the faces of all his men. Remembering the impaled skeleton that had greeted their arrival, the satrap smiled inwardly and told himself, The reports on these Agagites are true—they’re tough as sun-dried leather! I would hate to be their enemy, but they may make perfect allies.

  “So, satrap,” said Haman eventually, pouring a second goblet. “What brings you to our desolate straits?”

  “We come to claim this land for the Empire of Persia and its almighty king, Darius. We have heard of how sorely your predations in these parts have disrupted the Egyptian economy. And since King Darius intends to subdue this entire region, we have actually come to ask for your help.”

  “I will give you whatever aid my men and I can muster.”

  “Good. My lord and I ask only for you to do what you do best. To rape and pillage. Since you have already done such a worthy task of causing the Pharaoh grief, we would like for you to turn your attentions to Egypt itself on the Emperor’s behalf.”

  “Attack Egypt?”

  “Well, maybe not attack the entire nation. Our armies will do plenty of that in time. But harass, maybe. Pester their northernmost outposts. Weaken their defenses. Distract their scouts. If you can burn a city or two, all the better.”

  “Can I kill any Jews I find?”

  The satrap shrugged. “I know of no prohibitions against harming Jews. But I suppose they would be treated like any other local civilians.”

  Haman rubbed his hands together, his eyes gleaming. “Sir, consider me the newest and most willing raider in your Persian army. Call me your advance force, if you will.”

  The Persian slapped a hand across Haman’s shoulder. “Excellent. And there will be more opportunities for raiding if all goes well. This could be a good chance for you to catch the eye of our leadership and advance in position and rank in the Empire.”

  “Where could I raid after that, may I ask?”

  “Well, I’m not promising anything. But if this goes well, I could give you permission to attack Babylon. The old capital has been a bit arrogant of late and stands in need of a good trouncing. Of course, it could not be traced back to the Empire. It would have to be blamed on ethnic tension or some other source.”

  Haman’s greed swept through him like a tidal wave. He had never even considered ransacking Babylon, once the world’s strongest city.

  In only a moment, a snap of the fingers, his prospects had broadened far beyond his wildest dreams.

  And Haman did indeed attack Egyptian positions on his side of the Red Sea. His attacks were successful. As a result, six months later his Persian liaison gave him the go-ahead to attack Babylon. His men still would not be wearing the insignia of Persia, and they would have no official sanction from the Empire. They were undercover murderers, little more. Yet behind the scenes, the Empire would help Haman do his dirty work. A city gate left open. A sentry called in for the night. A defense force mysteriously away on maneuvers.

  A subdued city of Babylon, a too-arrogant child whose hand had been slapped, now leaned increasingly on the stabilizing strength of the Persian Empire.

  And that, my young friend, is how a band of Hebrew-hating Amalekites came to be in Babylon, far from their native territory, massacring not only my father Abihail’s family but many Jewish homes in the city and some of Babylon’s leading citizens.

  The blood of my family won Haman great favor within the Empire. In fact, within days after the Babylon bloodbath, he was summoned to Persepolis, where the king appointed him satrap over his native Negev deserts.

  And the stage was set for Haman’s ultimate assault on those he hated so much.

  7

  BABYLON—CIRCA 492 BC

  My second memory took a long time to form. It is a composite, really, a sadly familiar slice of the years following the murders. The memory is one of awakening ever so gradually from a cold, thick fog, a choking mist that dissolves from around my vision as slowly as eternity itself.

  Oh yes, and the fog is pain. I know that. Even as a child, I realized it. I look back and I am walking, one slow step at a time, out of an endless cloud of anguish.

  Did I tell you? Of course I didn’t. I hardly ever tell myself.

  I was the only member of my immediate family left alive.

  As it was, the murderers were not content to slaughter my mother, father, brother, uncle, aunt and three cousins. Or, as I would later discover, leading citizens of Babylon and all but a few dozen of its Jewish citizens. The Empire had stayed true to its plan—arranging for the conquered city’s homeguard to be deployed on “maneuvers,” all Imperial sentries mysteriously called away from their posts. Then it had ensured that the Ishtar Gate stood open and unwatched for the first time in centuries. The way for their cowardly massacre had been smooth indeed. The tweaking of mighty Babylon’s nose was complete.

  And as they swaggered out, one of the murderers found the time to throw a torch into the middle of the room. It is a wonder it was not extinguished by the deep puddle of blood that had collected there. But instead, it sprouted vigorously into flame and began to consume the remains of my family with an almost willful aggression.

  I remember the first sound of the fire’s eruption as a respite from the awful silence that had immediately settled as the last attacker departed. I had lain there, wishing time to stop, desperate to postpone the moment when I would have to open my eyes and deal with the cause of the awful stillness in the room, absorb the grisly verdict of my fingertips. But then I heard a great soft thump followed by the crackling of fire and realized that the last man had made one last act of violence. I was lying in the farthest corner from the door and truly at great risk of burning alive. Outside, the whinnying and galloping of horses had subsided. The murderers were gone.

  So I shakily stood in the sudden glare, not looking around me but keeping my eyes fixed on the door and the freedom framed there. I wanted to run, but here’s something I remember vividly: standing suddenly after so many minutes with every muscle clenched had caused my legs to go numb. I can clearly recall trying to coax my feet forward, even pawing at the floor with my tingling yet utterly unresponsive instep. Panic began to chase my heartbeat and inflame my gestures. It struck me as almost ironic—though I would not have kno
wn the word—for my entire lower extremities to be frozen at a moment like this, but the fire was roaring toward me, and I could honestly picture myself becoming a human torch, unable to move in time. I began to gasp. Slowly, through a million pinpricks, my feet started to respond. I took a step with the slowness and exaggerated effort of a ninety-year-old.

  And then, possibly prompted by the recalcitrance of my limbs, I became instantly paralyzed with a limb-numbing kind of fear, the likes of which I had never felt before and seldom since.

  I simply could not move an inch, even to save my own life. I could not have been more immobilized had someone tied me with a rope. I watched the flames approach, felt the heat grow unbearable, but found myself as fixed as a statue.

  In the next moment, the image of myself as the last victim of this attack burst whole into my mind, vivid and realistic. Somehow it seemed, for the briefest of seconds, utterly reasonable and proper that I should soon die. It was in the order of things. It made sense.

  And then, just as quickly, it did not. Now it made no sense whatsoever; in fact, in the blink of an eye its reasoning became offensive to me. I felt pain and looked back. The fire had raced around the ceiling’s corner and had now swallowed a linen curtain tucked above a windowsill, only five cubits away. I sensed an actual rage in the flames, a vast and powerful hatred of my body in its intact state. Suddenly the thought of myself as its victim struck me as repugnant. The very notion of remaining frozen and accepting of this fate now made me feel like a cowardly accomplice to my own horror.

  So I began to fight again. Not willing to accept the excruciating slowness of my steps, I actually hopped, as though jumping would liberate me from the rebellion of my legs. I hopped again, farther this time.