The Victory Feast
The sun was setting beyond the Euphrates and incense rode the breeze of the Chaldean evening. Beneath the palace balustrades the streets of sacred Babylon were filled with revelry. Music rose above the din of dance and drink, and laughter ran across rock and river to reach the palace summit. Upon the towers of Enitendu and Nabu-sha-Khare burned the sacred fires Sin and Nabu. Brightest of all upon the sky was Ninsi’anna, the evening star.
The King of Babylon stood upon the summit of his palace, which men called the Marvel of Mankind. He looked with satisfaction at the lone star blazing over the city. It had been only a fortnight since he had strode the lands of Judah a conqueror, the city of Jerusalem broken beneath his feet. Tonight was the grand celebration of his conquest. It pleased him to see the goddess rising to the east, like Babylon itself rising to rule the world.
Behind him the festivities rang out from within the palace. The King paid them no heed for the moment, having ordered his servants to give him a breath of peace with his city. He turned away from the evening star and wandered towards the west, towards the river Euphrates. There rose trees of olive and fig, and flowers of evening purple that crowned the terraces. Among them were the ruby red flowers of pomegranate trees and vines of grapes that climbed upon the pillars.
These were his Gardens, built in his first years as king to ease his wife’s longing for the Median hills. Water was pumped from the river to the garden summit and ran down these terraces, glittering from the fires of the nearby temples. A breeze picked up from the west and caressed the cheek of the King. It smelled of cypress and dew.
Next the king wandered towards the south. There he saw another terraced edifice towering above the city below. The Etemenanki, the Temple of the Foundation of Heaven and Earth. It was the seat of Marduk, the All-Creator, and its sanctum reached far into the purple sky. A thousand and one steps lead from the temple precinct to the sanctum, over terrace and up sheer walls, tread only by the feet of kings and priests.
It had taken the royal family generations to rebuild, but now it once again stood as the gateway to the kingdom of the gods. There, in the rich blue house of the Omniscient One, mere men could hear the gods speak in the heavenly silence. He had stood there today in the honeyed morning light before the golden idol of Marduk, singing the sacred hymns of thanksgiving. When the silence of heaven returned, it was as if the universe had smiled.
Now the sacred fires burned at the summit, incense rolling down onto the streets of Babylon. Priests no larger than ants walked up and down the boundless stairs, tending to the Lord of All. The King felt a yearning to return to that heavenly abode, to say his thanks again and again. Babylon was the jewel of eternity, the crossroads of the world and the very seat where heaven and earth were reconciled. By the grace of the gods, he had pride of place in the city that the gods themselves favored.
The King continued his musings, gazing out upon his beloved city. In his hand he held a cup taken from the temple of the Judahites. It was a simple vessel of coarsely hammered bronze, but to the King it may as well have been of finest gold, for it was won by war and spoke of victory. A sip of wine still remained within, dark like royal blood. The King finished it, savoring the flavor.
The taste of victory was sweet.
Behind him a servant approached.
“Forgive my intrusion, Most High, but the honored guests beg your presence at table.”
“They shall have it,” spoke the King, his voice stern yet musical.
He turned and followed the servant back into the dim light of the banquet hall. The roar of bantering voices returned to him once more, rolling through the candle-lit space.
A servant girl approached the King as he entered, carrying a pot of wine.
“Refreshments, Most High?”
The King assented and the girl filled his cup. She had seen but sixteen harvests, but her bearing was vibrant and coy. Her curly hair fell in castaneous locks over her naked breasts, and her face was vulpine and sweet. She smiled at him when she had finished pouring, black eyes sparkling in the candlelight.
With a smile and a royal nod, the King sent her on her way.
Rows of tables were set in the hall, crowded with nobles and dignitaries. Here were the proud Medes from Ekbatana, the warlike Assyrians from Assur and Ninevah, lesser nobility from Nippur and Sippar, and even a delegation from Elam to the east. All sat at their respective tables, tributaries and vassals of Babylon.
As the King strode with practiced ease to the royal table, his queen rose in greeting. His sons, too, did rise for the King, and a hush fell over the hall. Servants stole away in silence and nobles perked their ears. The King went to stand before his seat and his gaze fell on all that were gathered before him.
In the silence of the hall, the King spoke.
“Honored guests of Babylon! I bid you all welcome to this night of celebration. For thirty long months we have laid siege to the Judahites, thirty long months of war and hardship. By the will of Marduk the Giver of Glory, I now return to my city in triumph. Jerusalem the Ungrateful now lies in ruin, her temple burned and her god driven to the seas. Such will be the fate of all who oppose a king appointed by the gods of heaven and earth!”
He raised his cup in a toast to all the assembled. The lesser nobles competed in flattery; the Medes nodded their heads in silence; the Assyrians squeezed their cups in rage. But all knew the truth of the King’s words, and so met his toast with theirs.
“But all who remain faithful, O honored dignitaries,” the King continued, “can expect a king’s gratitude. With the burning of Judah are Egypt’s ambitions checked and Pharaoh will no longer be so keen for war. Yet Babylon the Great, ever-blessed by Ishtar, shall never sate her thirst for glory. We will march on papyrus-rich Byblos and on Sidon by the sea, and above all on Tyre clad in purple. The trains of spoils will never cease to run through the gates of Babylon, and to those who stay faithful a king’s gratitude is great indeed!”
With that the King raised his hand and the servants swarmed back into the hall. They bore pots and platters with varied foods – lamb with juniper and licorice, zamzaganu, roast pork, platters of dates, olives, figs, pears and more, honey from Ephesus, rich wines from Borsippa, the mead of Susa and countless other delicacies were brought in.
After the first swarm of servants had filled the tables with food, the second came bearing gifts from conquered Jerusalem. Each dignitary and noble was handed a small carved box of fine wood, containing rings and necklaces with precious stones, cups of gold, spoons of silver, purses filled with shekels. The lesser nobles crooned and twittered; the Medes smiled and nodded; the Assyrians thundered with laughter.
When the gifts had all been given, the King raised his hand again and spoke.
“Tonight we celebrate Babylon Eternal, her riches and her monuments, and all the gods of heaven and earth! Now feast and make merry in the name of Babylon and her king!”
With a booming clap of his hands the King signaled the dancing girls to enter. The crashing of cymbals and the whine of reed pipes filled the hall, and all the assembled broke out in revelry.
The Image on the Wall
The moon shone bright in the Chaldean night, laying its ardent light over feasting Babylon. The sacred fires still burned like stars into the night, rising from Babylon’s venerable temples. In the palace of the King the festivities continued unabated. Through tepid cloying air, music and laughter streamed out of the banquet hall.
A dozen dancing girls were tripping throughout the hall, swaying this way and that to the drums and reed pipes. They were naked save for a simple leopard pelt tied about the waist, their bared breasts pale like the light of Sin. In their hair were ivy leaves and flowers; about their necks were living snakes that writhed and hissed, black tongues darting to taste the air.
They performed the dance of Ningishzida that told the tale of his descent and return from the underworld. They tossed their black locks to and fro, shrieking like mourning wives over the death of the god. Then sank they to their knees as the cymbals silenced and the pipes ceased their whistling. Silence reigned in the hall for a moment, then the drums slowly rose and thundered.
With renewed shrieks the girls rose to their feet and skipped once more among the tables. From pouches hidden underneath their pelts they drew forth flowers and rained them down upon the assembled nobility. Then held they the snakes among the seated and chanted to the beat of the drums.
“Lo! Lo! Ningishzida returns! What lives, dies! What dies, lives!”
The King sat at the royal table, his cup emptied for what seemed like the thousandth time. The music lulled his senses and the wine set his mind adrift. A trance came over him as he saw the girls invoke the birth and death of a god. He heard the rhythmic chanting as if through water, distant and strange. The faces in the hall writhed and glistened, contorted with laughter. They too seemed distant and strange.
On the far end of the hall, the moonlight shone upon the glazed red-and-gold bricks of the wall. A lion was immortalized in relief on this wall, proud and imperious. Only its head was lit by the cold glare. As the darkness encroached further upon the King’s mind, all that was left for him to see was this lion’s head of stone immersed in silver light.
The lion turned to look at the King and the hall went deathly silent.
A shudder went through the King as he saw the brick-relief beast stare at him with its glazed eyes. The air, before so sticky and choking, now chilled the sweat on his neck.
Silent like the night, another lion from the wall brought its head into the patch of moonlight. It, too, turned to face the King.
The King let out a shivering gasp and recoiled from the royal table. His cup of Judahite bronze fell from his hand, yet it made no sound of striking against the floor. Thinking himself mad, the King swung around towards his wife, but she had retired to her chambers hours ago. So instead he lunged across the queen’s chair to grab hold of his nearest son.
His hand took hold of the princely shoulder, but what it found there felt as if it had been hewn from granite. The prince’s flesh was hard and unyielding, and by no means could the King rouse the young man’s attention. He opened his mouth to speak, but as he saw his son’s face the words died in his royal throat.
The prince’s face was frozen in a look of sudden terror. A mere hand’s breadth away from his face was the wide-jawed mouth of a striking snake. But no strike came, and no cry from the prince. Both were locked in complete stillness, as if time itself had ceased its motion.
Suddenly, the sound of steps echoed through the hall. The King turned to see how the moonlight patch had grown larger and brighter. It now spanned the breadth of a doorway and was of such pure light that no trace of brick or mortar could be seen. The lions’ heads could still be seen in clear relief, bowed in submission towards the pillar of light.
It was from the direction of this light that the steps echoed forth, followed by a voice.
“Hail, O King of Babylon, Lord of the Universe, Provider of Esagila and Ezida, humble king and pious prince, favorite of all the gods. I come seeking an audience.”
It was a woman’s voice that spoke, sultry and crisp with a hint of insolence at the edges. The figure of a woman appeared in the light, hazy and indistinct.
“Who are you? And why do you disturb my hall?” the King shouted at her.
“Do you not recognize me, O King? Have you not knelt before my image?”
From out of the light stepped the woman, appearing now in fullness. She was tall and shapely, white-armed and long-legged, her whole body flowing in peaks and valleys. A gown of purest lapis lazuli billowed around her figure, festooned with brooches of silver. Her hair was like a lion’s mane and spun of gold, draping her neck and shoulders. Across breasts carved from marble lay a necklace of precious stones, outshined by the glow of her eyes.
“I am the tamer of lions and the mistress of beasts.”
The lions of brick stepped forth from the wall to follow the woman, now composed of flesh and fur.
“I am the power by which men build cities and kings command armies.”
With surety she walked down the central line of the hall, between the tables of the Medes and Assyrians.
“I am the lady loved by all, be it in the temples of Uruk or in the brothels of Isin.”
The still flames shone unevenly in the air. As she approached, the King saw that her cheeks were painted with a blush to entice the desires of men.
“In Egypt they know me as Isis. Parakaras in Elam they call me. My name in Canaan is Astarte, and as Aphrodite revered on the foamy shores of Cyprus.”
She plucked a timeless rose petal that hung in the air and crushed it between her fingertips.
“I am the honey of love and the blood of war. I am the rising and the falling star, the hopes and fears of men, the great-hearted and the cruel. All things bow before me in reverence, be they god or mortal.”
With a flick of her wrist were the candles choked and darkness reigned in the hall. For a moment there was silence, then her voice spoke like silk and thunder.
“Know me as Ishtar, Queen of Heaven!”
At those words a flash of holy fire emanated from the goddess, striking the King blind. A shiver like a storm at sea rushed through his body and his hair stood out on end. He scrambled to his feet to escape the apparition, but his knees refused to carry him. He fell backwards and struck the royal chair, splintering wood and knocking it to the side.
“Mercy, O Queen, show mercy…” the King pleaded, his hands outstretched in supplication.
When his sight returned, the goddess stood over him. A teasing smile played across her features and she spoke over the growling of the lions.
“Do not be afraid, O King. I do not come bearing ill. I seek an audience with you, O wisest of men, for there is much you must know. Now rise, that I may show you the course of heaven.”
Shivering and on unsteady legs, the King rose as the goddess commanded.
Revelation of Death
“Behold, O King, the faces of the assembled.”
At her words, the candles blazed to life and the hall was in motion again. But it was not the motion of festivity with its laughter and song that the King saw. Time flowed along a separate course, playing out on the glistening faces.
At first, the King could not make out what the goddess was showing him. He scanned across the hall at the shadowy figures. He gazed upon the Medes and saw their calm pride dissolve into… was it defeat? Under the mask of merriment there were burgeoning lines of despair and age. He turned his eyes to the Assyrians and saw their fiery temper cooled by a tide of…
The King paled.
From the faces of the now-snarling Assyrians erupted a mosaic of scars and bruises. He saw blood dripping from their broken noses, their jaws cracked under some invisible violence. Tufts of skin and hair fell off their bones as if carved by cruel knives; still-writhing eyes were plucked from bloody sockets; entire skulls caved in. Within moments, the Assyrians had been reduced to freshly butchered gore.
Nausea befell the King. In a rising panic he searched across the hall for some reprieve from the bloody display of murder. He found none.
He saw the sycophants of his court. One by one, their faces lit up with cowardice before disappearing forever. He saw his servants slapped in chains and carried off into the shadows. He saw flower petals rot in the air, the food crawling with maggots and the brilliant paints of his hall fade and wither. The Medes were now like wizened old men, toothless mouths lolling meaninglessly as their corpses dried up underneath moth-eaten finery. Their dust mixed with Assyrian blood and rotting food.
Suddenly, a shrill cry rose above the nightmare silence.
“What lives, dies! What lives, dies!”
To the sound of cymbals like cracking bone and flutes like weeping widows, the dancers once more sprung to life. Again and again they repeated this new, accursed chant. Their stomping feet went marching through the dust and the gore, churning it into a fetid mud. With snarling faces they ripped apart the snakes, drank their blood and whirled cackling into the jaws of hungering lions.
“Die! Die! Die!”
The dancers’ words echoed through the hall, sounds of triumph replaced by portents of doom. The hall itself was cracked and chipped, drowning in rot and covered with dust, sallow bones lying across the floor. The horror defied the understanding of the King and he whimpered feebly.
“Why, O Queen of Heaven, do you show these horrors? What is their meaning?”
From the wan candlelight a single figure appeared. A servant girl, mere sixteen harvests aged, with a face both vulpine and sweet. She stood in silence as the King beheld her. In the span of a single breath, the King saw her face wrinkle and sag; her olive skin grew pocks and blemishes; her youth faded. Her brown locks lost their luster, replaced by white tufts of hair. Then she died, and after dying she rotted. Nothing remained but the bones, then they too were ground to dust. Not even her memory remained.
“You brought them here, O King, to celebrate the eternal city. Dignitaries and nobles, the best foods, the sweetest girls. But all this is mortal. A precious night lasts but a night and time must take its toll. Know therefore that I am the source of life and the killer of all, the beginning and the end. Everyone that you see before you here today, O King, shall die.”
A careless wind unsettled the ashes of the hall. The candles flickered and died. In the encroaching darkness, the only sound was the whimpering of the King.
The goddess spoke again, her voice both like honey and blood.
“Behold now, O King, the city eternal. Behold Babylon.”
A sudden cascade of doves fluttered about the King. It was a maelstrom of feathers, pure and white. In a moment the doves were gone and the King stood outside in the night.
Graveyard of Conquerors
Atop the summit of Etemenanki, the King saw nothing but formless mounds of dust and rock. Where had his Gardens gone? Where the Processional Way with its colored brick, or the temples of Sin and Nabu? Why did the sacred fires not burn like stars across the city? And why were the streets so deathly quiet?
The moonlight shone over the mounds of dust and played on the rippling Euphrates. Long shadows were cast across the still city. Again and again the King thought he could see movement among the rocks, but his eyes failed him. He could make out nothing but fading ghosts and one lone jackal hunting rats between what had once been the grandest temples in the world.
A chill ran down the King’s spine at the sight of this silent graveyard. His voice was dry and wavering as he spoke.
“What has happened to my city, O Queen of Heaven? How has this desolation come to pass?”
From the broken shrine of Marduk, the King could hear the footsteps of the goddess as she approached. He held his breath in anticipation of her answer. He dared not look at her.
“Behold the course of heaven, O King,” the goddess said. She strode up beside him, yet he still dared not to look. All he saw was a delicate hand covered in jewelry that pointed over his shoulders towards a patch of starlit night.
Here, the King saw the night arrange itself into the outline of a face. It was a face royal and young, sharply chiseled and dangerous. Its features were almost Median, though not as lax as the features of Susa. The eyes of that face were like those of an eagle in how they spied the lands of Babylon and her vassals. Behind this conqueror, stretching far into the night-sky to the northeast, was an army vaster than anything the King had ever seen.
These soldiers rode forth like ghosts across the sky, trampling the mounds of dead Babylon underneath the hooves of their spectral horses. They had hands accustomed to the bow and the reins, and their tongues were such that never lied. Far beyond Babylon the warriors rode, over the lands of Nineveh and Palmyra, across purple Tyre and burning Jerusalem, even as far as the holy lands of Egypt. Everywhere they rode the standard of the conqueror rose – an eagle with a sun rising above its head.
Only when the riders had disappeared from the night, and the shadow left by the unknown conqueror relaxed its menace, did the King dare to look upon the goddess once more. Her skin glittered like precious silver, her form was carved like polished wood, and she still wore the blue billowing gown. Though no light shone on her from fire or candle, she appeared as clear as day. No shadow could hide her.
The King spoke again, his voice slow and dripping.
“So this is the one that the gods favor? Truly the temples of his kingdom must be great, if ours inspire such hatred by comparison.”
“Not so, O King, and wipe the insolence from your words. It does not befit one beloved by the gods.”
“It is not insolence, O Queen,” replied the King. “It is grief. I know this well to be a vision of things to come. How then can this desolation be called love? It is this reaving king that is beloved, not I.”
“You do not see clearly what is shown, O King. Behold once more the course of heaven.”
The King saw more horsemen riding across the sky, but these were not like those he had seen before. They circled the vast army of the conqueror and fired their arrows into his men. One by one his army thinned until chaos broke out in the heavens. No longer could the King make out one side from another – all was hooves and arrows and dying men.
At last the dust settled and the King beheld once more the face of the conqueror. Its eyes were now dim and its features slack. From the darkness of night a woman stepped forward, holding by the hair the conqueror’s severed head. With mouth twisted in grief and hatred, she dunked the head into a spectral pot. Rivers of blood impossibly black poured over the rim of the pot, blanketing the night.
The King shuddered as he watched the sky grow sable and dim. The goddess had not lied, for this was not the fate of one beloved by the gods. And yet the King could not understand how Babylon, doomed to destruction, should fall before one so clearly hated by the heavens.
“Forgive me, O Queen,” said the King after a moment. “I am but a man and the way of the heavens is beyond mortal ken. I cannot see how one so beloved of the gods – as you say that I am – can fall before one to whom the gods have decreed such a grisly fate.”
“I decree such fates as are befitting, O King. He who thirsts for blood will one day have his fill, just as he who dreams of eternity must meet it in death. Neither love nor hatred play a part in this. Such have I decreed of mortal life since long before your time, and my decree shall stand long after.”
There was betrayal in the voice of the King when he spoke once more to the goddess.
“Then the love of the gods does not safeguard a man against fate?”
“You still do not see clearly, O King, if you think that is the measure of a god’s love. Behold the heavens once more.”
The goddess lifted her jeweled hand once more and twisted the night about her fingers. Once more did the starlight play across the sky and a procession of shapes stepped forth, this time marching from the northwest. They carried brazen shields and the longest pikes the King had ever seen. At their head was a man that shone almost like a god. His face was handsome beyond words, with a lion’s mane of hair and eyes that were proud and commanding.
At the head of his army, this new ruler marched across all the lands of Egypt and Babylon, of the Medes and the Hittites, and far beyond into jungles and plains unknown to the King. Battle by battle was fought in the skies and always the young general was victorious. His light extended throughout the whole of the earth and many cities greater than Babylon were built that bore his name.
“Do you tease me now, O Queen, with the grandeur of the immortals? Surely this must be a god. He claims the whole of the earth for his dominion and he is undefeated in battle, yet not one day has he aged since he began his march. Is this what will forever be beyond mortal power?”
“Not so, O King. The man you now see conquered the empire built by him who conquered yours, just like you conquered countless nations to forge your dream of Babylon. Where one rises, another must fall. Such is the course of heaven.”
“Then this king must be the last, O Queen, for after him there can be no others left to fall. His reach extends across the earth and so many cities bear his name.”
“Not so, O King. Behold the fate of the man and the empire. Know thenceforth the course of heaven.”
The goddess waved her hand and the graveyard night disappeared, replaced by the fluttering of doves.
The Broken Crown
When the pure white feathers fell from the King’s eyes, he stood once more within his palace. Though the room was dim in the dying candlelight, the sight was unmistakable. Glazed brick walls of deepest blue, with ornate reliefs of golden trees and white flowers, enclosed the familiar space. At the foot of the walls, on either side of the room, marched a procession of lions in relief, each proceeding from the entrance towards the heart of the room. There, on a dais, stood a chair shrouded in shadows and silk.
This was the King’s throne room.
He turned around towards the entrance to see if the goddess was close. Through the open doors he saw the moonlight shining unto the empty courtyard. There was no sign of life, only the pitiful moaning of the wind in the night. Turning away from the weeping winds, the King walked slowly towards his throne.
His feet made barely a sound as he strode over the fine carpet. The candles shivered from the errant winds and dust settled over the mosaic floor. Darkness lay heavy over the royal throne, but as the King approached he began to see a glimmer in the darkness. He stooped to see what the shadows hid when the wind suddenly howled behind him. Candles flashed and the King’s heart grew cold at what he saw.
There, upon his throne, sat the corpse of a man.
The King recognized the young general from the vision. He sat leaning to one side, his head drooping unto his shoulder. The face was still handsome, though wasted by some unknown malignancy. Broken on the stone floor lay the general’s crown, a golden wreath of laurel. He was decked in the silks and finery of Babylon, covering his body like a corpse wrapping.
The King watched the dead man for some time, pondering his fate. He had seemed so godlike in aspect, yet now he was but another man. How had he died? Was it a fever or a wound? Was it poison? One question above all rose into the mind of the King, and this one he spoke aloud to the corpse.
“What happened to your kingdom, O General?”
The flames died down in response to his question and darkness reigned once more in the throne room. The winds took up their moaning with renewed grief and the sand hissed along the mosaic. Soon footsteps could be heard in the sand and the quarreling of foreign tongues rose from the grieving wind.
Suddenly, a cast of spectral men marched into the throne room. This startled the King and he scrambled to one side, watching the assembly from a distance. A great council formed before the throne of the dead general and from this council stepped five men. These five men bickered and argued, harsh words thrown between grand gestures of arrogance and insolence. So heated was their pride that the King thought that they would all come to blows. But the five men merely drew their swords and departed, each walking his separate path back into the darkness.
Then the throne room was quiet once more and the candles resumed a low, thoughtful ember.
“So that was to be the fate of an empire,” the King finally said after a moment of silence. “Devoured by the vultures of death. What was built in a lifetime died with the builder.”
He gazed at the brilliant reliefs of his throne room, the lions and the flowers. He thought of his Gardens and his temples, the great Etemenanki, the banquet and the girl. Above all, he thought of his Babylon. Babylon the Great, the Eternal City, beloved by the gods. Babylon the Great, doomed to destruction. Fought over like a bauble in the marketplace and then discarded…
The Queen’s Love
The Chaldean night was silent like the tomb, the winds dead and unmoving. Sounds of grief and anguish streamed out into the night. None was there but the King, and none wept but him.
The King made for a pitiful sight – the hunching by the steps to the throne room, the fitful wailing, the tear-stained eyes of the royal face. Behind him, in the darkness of the throne room, still sat the corpse of the young general. Before him, the wind-swept ruins of Babylon still lay sinking into the dust.
“Wretched is the lot of men,” the King said, his voice like a pot breaking. “But most wretched of all is he who built and saw it ground to dust.”
“Not so, O King,” spoke a voice like trickling wine and the cooing of birds. “The gods know of no greater love than to build.”
The King raised his head and beheld the goddess standing in the desolate courtyard. The sight of her sent a blaze flashing through his heart.
“And yet you doom all we make to destruction!” roared the King. “What else is there to call our lot, O Queen, but wretchedness? We men are destined to die and rot, and all that we build will one day be as naught. You, yourself, have revealed this to me in the course of the heavens. We pile stone upon stone in your honor, and you toss it aside!”
At these words, the King took his crown from his brow and threw it at the ground. He stared at the goddess and said, “I refuse to build ever again!” Then he paused for a moment, sighed, and gazed at the pale stars without awe.
“Forgive my words, O Queen, but I think I finally understand your lesson,” he said at last. Divine amusement played on the countenance of the goddess. She smiled as she spoke to the despairing lord.
“If that is so, then tell my why you think this young general, whom you thought a god, came to Babylon.”
The King was taken aback by her question. He turned to look into the dimness of the throne room and saw once more the corpse of the general. The candlelight played on his pale features and glittered in the broken crown.
“I… do not know, O Queen.”
“After claiming the earth for his dominion,” the goddess said, “and founding many cities that bore his name, the general returned to Babylon. He returned because he wanted to make Babylon the seat of his kingdom.”
Upon hearing these words, the King grew quiet. A single question drifted in his mind.
“But why, O Queen?”
“Because of what Babylon meant, O King. This great general aspired to her greatness. From her throne room alone did he think to rule the world.”
“But she is destined to become as ash!”
“As are all mortal things, O King, but that which you call Babylon is not mortal.”
The King’s royal face dove back into the palms of his hands. In defeat he spoke, saying, “Your words confound me, O Queen. All you have taught tonight is mortality. Now you speak of immortality. I am deaf to your words.”
“Consider the anemone,” the goddess said as she stood blazing in the courtyard. A carpet of red flowers appeared around her. “It grows for but a season, then it perishes. But in its death, it seeds the land anew. It grows again at the dawning of the new season. The anemone is mortal, yet it is also immortal. It dies, yet it does not die.”
“And this is so for my Babylon?” The King’s voice wavered, like a flickering candle.
“So it is, O King. After Babylon falls, she will be the seed of countless cities that will continue her glory. The seed of the anemone may fall on foreign lands, yet the flower is still the anemone. In the same way, these other cities are all Babylon.”
“We Chaldeans have always taught,” the King mused, “that a man lives on in his descendants. Is that what you are speaking of, O Queen?”
“A man lives on in his sons, just as the lion does, or the dove. But he also lives on in his deeds, in the wisdom he passed on and in the things he built. These too are seeds, growing in the fertile soil of young hearts. In this way, O King, do actions reach further than the span of a life.”
The King marveled at her words, his eyes slowly drying in the night air. “I still do not understand, O Queen,” said the King. “The descendants of mortals are themselves mortal, and thus fated to die. The march of fate continues. How can a thing die, yet not die?”
“It is a life that dies, but Life itself that never dies. All things on earth are bound to heaven. What is on earth must die, but what is in heaven can never die. The mortal borrows what it is from the immortal and upon perishing returns it. Such is the course of heaven, O King.”
“What is the nature of the immortal, then, O Queen, if it be such that it never dies?”
“A cloud forms on the brow of heaven, O King, and men ask whence it came. It dissipates and is no longer seen, and men ask where it went. Yet it came from heaven, persisted in heaven and returned to heaven. What is the cloud if not heaven, O King? Such is the nature of the immortal.”
The King scratched his beard and wondered mightily. For all his wisdom, the words of the goddess were difficult to follow. Presently, he spoke and asked of the goddess, “How can the cloud be heaven, if it comes and goes, O Queen?”
“Not all things in heaven,” answered the goddess, “are apparent on earth at one time. For one thing to appear another must disappear. The image is carved only by sacrificing the stone, and the son inherits the house only once the father has died. Yet know this: that from which all these things arise, O King, can never be destroyed. None can make perish the imperishable.”
“I understand now,” the King replied, “why things come and go. Yet I am mortal, O Queen. I have come and will one day go. How am I immortal, being mortal as I am?”
The goddess blazed brighter at the King’s words.
“Something cannot come from nothing and what never was cannot ever be. Likewise, nothing that ever was can ever cease to be. You are here, O King, and here you shall remain. Never has a time existed when your likeness was not known in heaven, even before your appearance first saw light on earth. Nobles and servants, Assyrians or Medes – never was there a time when these were not.”
“And know that the same is true,” the goddess continued, “of the mountains and the rivers, the stars and the rains, day and night. All that you see before you, though perishable on earth, is known forever in heaven. Being known there, it will yet be remembered, like dawn returning from the netherworld of night. You have been here before, O King, as have all things.”
To these words the King nodded in silence. From the broken stones of the dead city did the shadows loom and lengthen. Twilight shone beyond the goddess.
“Tell me of this heaven, O Queen. We have measured it and counted its stars; we know that it holds the fates of kings and nations. But I see now that heaven reaches higher than any Chaldean ever thought. What is heaven?”
“What is heaven but the womb of the universe? What is heaven but the thoughts of a goddess? What is heaven but I? Know that I am all that could ever be. Before you were, O King, I am.”
With those words did the King dare to meet the goddess’s eyes once more, which were lovely like precious stones. In her eyes he saw himself – not as he sat here, before his ruined throne room, but as he had ever been in every moment of life. In a flash he saw his youth in the gardens of Uruk, his victory at Carchemish, his recent campaign against the Judahites. His death, too, was revealed to him in the eyes of the goddess.
His life was in eventide. There was still time.
“I now know,” the King said, “that all this is but the passage of clouds upon your brow, O Queen. I know that I myself am but a fancy played out within the depths beyond your eyes. But even so, my life is not yet over. You know that I am a builder, O Queen. What purpose does my life have? Why make when the gods hold no love for making?”
At these words the goddess laughed and the sky beyond her grew tawny and sweet. Rising high above the dust was the morning star, brightly shining above her crowned head.
“Have I not also made a whole world of things destined to die, O King? Is that not what I have shown you?”
The King hesitated. “That you have, O Queen.”
“And did I not draw them forth from my very own self? Did I not let them persist within me, and will I not return them to myself when their fated time arrives? Have I not taught you this?”
“That you have, O Queen.”
“And why do you suppose that I have done so, O King, if it is not out of the love of making? What do you think binds earth and heaven together, if not precisely this love? What is creation, if not the gate between heaven and earth? Have I not made this obvious to you?”
The King said nothing. Tears returned once more to his eyes, though they were no longer hot with grief.
“Love is not the granting of sinecures nor the payment of debts,” the goddess said. “Love is to give one’s very essence. You expect a love that does not exist, O King, yet you do not see the love that you have received. The essence of a god is to make, and that essence has been given to all mortal life.”
“Yet while all mortals must fall,” the goddess continued, “not all will rise. Creation is a terror as well as a desire. Few are those that can trust in the love of the gods, but those that do receive it in abundance. They ignite the essence that they have been given and fill the world with godlike wonders. Are you not among them, O King? Are you not a maker of wonders by the grace of my love?”
“That I am, O Queen,” said the King. His voice was like warm winds trembling over the Euphrates.
“Then you see the truth at last. You shall make because it is the greatest gift of love that can be given. I began creation in the first moment before time, drawing the universe out of myself in love for the things I made. Now I invite you to create, O King, so that my love may continue through you. In so doing, you deify yourself and all that you have made. Only then will you see that heaven dwells in you. Only then will you know me.”
At these words the King fell to his knees at the feet of the goddess. His hands were clasped before him, and in his prostration did whispered words of prayer rise into the morning light. He remained like this for some time, until the prayers quieted on his tongue. Then he spoke.
“Forgive me, O Queen.”
“For doubting?”
“Yes.”
“It is mortal to doubt. Now arise, O King. Your fate has not yet come.”
The King rose to his feet but before he could see the countenance of the goddess again, a flurry of dove’s feathers swirled around him. In the pure white softness of the feathers, the King awoke.
The Gate of Heaven
“Are you feeling better, Most High?”
It was the soft voice of a servant. The King shook the sleep from his eyes and beheld the man. The morning light was streaming into his bedchamber.
“What happened last night?” the King asked. His voice was like gravel crushed underfoot.
“Most High, you fell from your chair during the performance to Ningishzida. When the servants came to help you, they said your face was pale like one dead. They helped you to your chambers and you promptly fell into slumber. They were worried for you.”
“They need not be. It was nothing but overindulgence of wine. I am fine.”
“Even so, I have been sent to ensure that you are well. May I help you get dressed, Most High?”
The King nodded in assent and the servant helped him to rise from his bed. He was dressed first in a simple ankle-length linen tunic, then a red tunic of wool, and finally a white shawl that was laid across his shoulders. His long hair was wrapped in a turban and his sandals were strapped to his feet. This done, the King stepped out onto the balcony of his bedchamber.
Beneath him was his beloved Babylon, standing much as she had done the night before. Her streets were quiet, the signs of last night’s celebrations being tidied up by the street sweepers. The first priests of the day were making their way to the summits of the temples, singing their prayers and lighting fresh incense.
The sky was a tawny blue fringed with pink, a virgin morning unblemished by cloud or mist. To the east rose the morning star, a jewel hanging above the colored bricks of the Processional Way that crossed through the city. With his eyes the King followed the Way towards the north, where it passed through a simple gate of mud brick.
“Forgive me, Most High,” the servant said, “but isn’t it a beautiful morning? The gods truly love Babylon.”
The King did not hear him, for his mind had wandered far beyond the reaches of the balcony. At the end of the Way, where it passed through the northern gate, the King saw only the eyes of the goddess. Radiant, impossibly blue, and unblemished as the sky, the King saw his city reflected in them. It was not the city as it stood before him today, nor as it would lie beneath the dust.
It was the city as it would eternally be, the city from which all other cities to come would take their form. It was the jewel of mortal striving, the golden roads of creation that all men are called to walk. It was the eternal Babylon, the Babylon as it existed in heaven, treasured forever within the depths of the goddess.
And it was there, at the end of the Processional Way to the north, that the King saw the true gate to that eternal Babylon. It was of precious silver, polished wood and rich lapis lazuli, like the body of divinity. It was the gate not yet built, both the next of his life’s great works and the thing that must forever be built. Above all, it was the goddess herself.
He saw that the path to eternity was the Queen of Heaven, whom men know as Ishtar.