Babylonian Meditations on Royal Legacy

Tomas Daniel Asprer

With reverent hands and a silent prayer, the king of the City of Marduk held hardened earth up to his royal crown and bowed his head upon it.

Soft, ignorant mumbles echoed through the work grounds at his action, prompting a disappointed sigh from the monarch. He understood, of course. He was sarru, chosen by the gods to rule the lands. Kings did not work in the field; those duties fell to the awilum¸ muskenum, wardum; his servants, all.  Yet were his advisors truly so stiff, to hold tradition over good will? Were his people truly so foolish, that they followed along unthinkingly?

Perhaps. It mattered not, however. He was sarru, after all, and he did as he wished. And he had made his wishes known; if it took a year, a decade, his whole life, his people would surely eventually see it done.

But first came the now. The king rose to address the first protest, coming from one of his elderly advisors. Like the rivers of his domain, the sarru’s emotions – disappointment, disdain – threatened to flood out, but were forced to his will.

“Come, my king, you have done enough,” the priest dared to say, “The people have seen you; there is no need to toil further-“

“You believe yourself a worthy judge of my actions?” Though he maintained an impassive expression, the king’s voice betrayed his hidden feelings, “You forget yourself. My service here is not yet done.”

“But my king!” Another priest tried to protest, “Surely there is a better place for you? The gods have chosen you for kingship, and for your people servitude!”

So, he would invoke the gods? The king nodded, accepting the point before giving his counter.

“Indeed, I have been chosen for kingship,” the king chided, “But were the gods not chosen for death by Abzu and Tiamat? Should they have submitted to their place?”

The king was met with silence, so he continued, showing the brick in his hand, “This brick was once a clump of earth, made inarable with age. Should it have remained on the farm? And indeed, as part of the earth, it was once part of Mother Tiamat’s body. Should it have remained there, disjointed from the justice of the gods as it was?”

The priests and the people were silent.

“You know the answer,” the king asserted, “The gods, under our city’s lord, Marduk, sought to make something better of themselves, and so fashioned the world from Mother Tiamat’s body. You awilum, muskenum, wardum, saw that the earth was inarable, and so fashioned this brick from it. Now, I seek to join my will to yours to fulfil my promise. Shall I not fashion, with your will, this monument I have commissioned?”

This time, his loyal servants answered with low noises of assent. The king continued.

“As all of us are destined for Arallu, we all are also chosen to serve the gods. And indeed, my kingship’s purpose is to serve the gods. For is it not an injustice for our lord, Marduk, to hold residence in low establishment? Should the greatest of the gods, he who slew Tiamat, be forced to suffer an unworthy house? It is an evil in the sight of men, and I, Hammurabi, the exalted prince, have seen to correct it. To build a house for our lord, so that he might in turn grant us prosperity. Will any of you dare deny me?”

The assent grew louder, and now even the priests bore smiles. Hammurabi held the brick high in the dawn sun’s rays and declared:

“Now, let us set these at their assigned positions. Forget not to lather pitch between them all. These bricks shall form a house worthy of Lord Marduk, he who fashioned the world! Let our city not languish, our city, the Gate of the Gods. Let us fashion the greatest city of man, worthy of praise from all the men of these lands of noble lords! Let us make grand the legacy of our city, lofty Babylon!”

*

With reverent hands and a silent prayer, the King of Assyria set his crown on worn bricks and knelt.

Alarmed and confused mumbles echoed through Marduk’s temple at his action, prompting a disappointed sigh from the monarch. He understood, of course. His people were prideful and mighty. None had successfully opposed them; not the Egyptians, reduced to broken reeds before their iron; not the people of Hamath, Arpad, Sepharva’im and Sama’ria, with their feeble gods. Indeed, the men of Babylon too were their subjects, made subservient during the rule of his father. And yet, he, the king of all these conquered peoples, now knelt at the temple of Babylon’s god. Such subservience could be odd to the ignorant. The King of Assyria was not among those unlearned fools, however. All the gods – even those whose lands and peoples were conquered – deserved respect.

For who else could it have been but the gods, to bring low his mighty predecessor?

Despite their lack of understanding, the King’s advisors were silent and deferential when he rose. If they had doubts, they all withheld them as they returned to his residency. Even in the dark of night, unwatched by Babylon’s citizenry, none dared question him. Disappointingly, his most loyal servants, in their ignorance, could not discern what he needed from them.

Automatically, anyway.

“Baltasar, my host, I would have words with you.”

The governor of Babylon stepped forward and knelt before replying.

“Yes, my king?”

“What is your measure of my late father?”

Baltasar hesitated before replying, and as he gave it, he dared not meet his eyes.

“Your lordly father Sennacherib was a great man, worthy of kingship.”

“By what measure do you say this?”

Doubt filled the king’s chambers again as Baltasar struggled to answer.

“Your late father was a mighty warrior,” one of his generals stated, “With chariot wheel and sharpened spear, he had carved from the world the empire of Assyria. None in these lands could rival him; I dare say he was Sargon the Great come again!”

“He was a wise ruler as well; a builder of great works,” Baltasar added, “After all, is Ninevah not the envy of all the cities of the world? Did he not uplift the kingdom you inherited?”

“… yes, he did. He did what was good in the sight of the gods, or so it is said,” the king sighed as grief stabbed at his heart, “Yet, recall for me, what was the nature of his death?”

A painful silence filled the king’s chamber; one that lingered even when an answer was finally supplied.

“Murder,” Baltasar whispered.

“Yes. Murder. By his own sons… as he prayed in the temple of his lord,” the King tightened his core, as though to control a sick stomach, before continuing, “Is that a death worthy of a great man?”

They all knew it wasn’t.

“…You were not wrong in your judgement, my advisors. My father was a mighty warrior and a wise ruler. But, undeniably, he had done evil in the sight of the gods!” the King’s voice trembled as he continued, “Do not deny this, less they strike you down as well! Did he not butcher and desecrate and curse this holy city? Why else would he have been butchered as he was, been desecrated as he was, been cursed with cruel fate as he was?”

Baltasar, ever faithful, interrupted with a would-be soothing tone, “King Esarhaddon, my lord, please… for what purpose do you ask about your father’s sins? Have you not corrected them?”

“My father’s great works were made after his great sin!” the King of Assyria rebuked, “He was permitted that before his end. I may have restored Babylon to its state before the sack, but is that not expected? Should I not have done more? Against my family’s sin, what is that? Against that sin, what is a single prayer?”

The painful silence returned, and unable to bear it, Esarhaddon, King of Assyria pulled a seat aside and sat, dismayed. His councillors looked away in shame; of their failure or his, Esarhaddon couldn’t say. Nor did he notice, too deep in thought as he was. Was he truly doomed?

A southern wind blew, and light pierced the darkened kingly chamber, prompting a blink from the King. He was not quite woken from his stupor, but a hand was then offered before him. Esarhaddon looked to his chosen governor and found a proud smile.

“My king, please, follow me.”

The King of Assyria acquiesced without question. Through cedar doors he walked, and the light of Shamash illuminated him. The sun’s rays were not along, however. Instead, they were joined by cheers. The praise of a hundred voices echoed through the city called the Gate of the Gods, and for a moment, the son of Sennacherib forgot his plight.

“There he is! King Esarhaddon, who resettled the people of Babylon!” he heard it said.

“He has returned what was plundered from the city of Marduk!” Another called, “Praise the name Esarhaddon!”

Slowly, a smile spread across the King of Assyria’s face. Indeed, he had done what he set out to do. The lofty city was restored, the sin of his blood undone. King Esarhaddon raised a hand in reserved acceptance, and Babylon cheered. Perhaps his future remained in question, but at the present, he was a worthy king. He may have doubted it, but clearly the people of Babylon did not.

And surely, that legacy was enough?

*

With reverent hands and a silent prayer, the King of the lands of Babylonia rose from the mudbrick floor of his god’s temple.

No mumbles echoed behind the king, only ambience as his summoned guest and his escorts arrived. But, the king detected behind his men’s iron boot steps the ruffle of clothes and a slight heaviness as his summoned guest leaned tensely on his staff. So, he was distressed? Insulted, perhaps, at his prayer? His people were quite zealous and singular in their worship. Well, it mattered not; he was king here, and he could do as he pleased.

For now, anyway. What came next was up to his guest. If the rumours around his people’s character were true…

The King of Babylon turned to his guest and bore a frown. A feigned one, of course; he understood that the men before him did only what was customary to them. His guards knelt, whilst his guest, son of Judah that he was, stood stalwart. Usually, such defiance would be punishable with death, but if that was the price for wisdom, why would the king not pay it?

“Guards, leave us,” the king ordered, “The words we shall share are not for your ears.”

The son of Judah narrowed his eyes but did not voice a question. Did he expect to die, the king wondered with hidden amusement. It was illogical, for why then would he have bothered suffering his presence?

The king asked a different question, “You are Daniel of Judah, are you not?”

“I am a faithful servant of the Lord,” the Judaean answered.

A common title for gods, the king knew. He could not contain a smirk as he countered the dissuasion.

“And has the Lord, your God, delivered Daniel of Judah to me?”

The silence answered for the king… Or perhaps it did not. Either way, the king figured the man before him would suffice.

“The wisdom of the Judaean people has been known to the peoples, even here in Babylon,” the king began, “I would have you share it, for as of recent a dream has disturbed me; a dream none of my wisemen, magicians, or astrologers have interpreted.”

That was a lie, of course; those sycophants had interpreted plenty. But to be fair, the King of Babylon could hardly count the excrement they produced as advice.

The king put a hand to his waist, having it linger near a sheathed knife, before asking, “Will you help me?”

“… very well, I shall aid you,” the Judaean response, “But know that I possess no wisdom save the favour of the Lord.”

“I pray then that it shall suffice,” The king teased before continuing, “This is the nature of my dream: I beheld a great statue, greater than any in my kingdom. It had a head of gold, breast and arms of silver, a waist of bronze, legs of iron, and feet part iron, part clay. This statue was torn asunder by a stone from top to bottom. Now, Judaean, tell me the meaning of my dream. Start your explanation wherever you wish. Simply ensure that by your explanation’s end, I have an understanding of this vision.”

Daniel paused in thought, and the King of Assyria pondered what his answer would be. His Chaldean wisemen had given many answers, none to his liking. Some had focused on the golden head of the statue, equating it to his dynasty to insincerely praise him. Others looked to its silver chest and, again insincerely, saw a symbol of Babylon’s wealth under him. Most saw the iron legs of the statue as symbols of his and his predecessor’s crushing might. All saw the clay feet of the statue as its failing point, and they linked the failure – a supposed fall of Babylon – to their rivals’ lies. As if their own lies were any better.

Daniel then spoke with stoic tone, “You, Nebuchadnezzar, king of kings, to whom the God of heaven has given the kingdom, the power, and the might, and the glory-“

Nebuchadnezzar forced himself not to roll his eyes as Daniel gave him praise.

“-aking you rule over them all — you are the head of gold,” Daniel’s explanation continued without expression, “After you shall arise another kingdom inferior to you, and yet a third kingdom of bronze-“

The King of Babylon raised an eyebrow. None had dared suggest his kingdom would end, yet this Judaean upstart was claiming two would follow?

“And there shall be a fourth kingdom, strong as iron, because iron breaks to pieces and shatters all things; and like iron which crushes, it shall break and crush all these,” Daniel’s stoic expression broke into a thin smile, “And as you saw the feet and toes partly of potter’s clay and partly of iron, it shall be a divided kingdom. As you saw the iron mixed with miry clay, so they will mix with one another in marriage, but they will not hold together, just as iron does not mix with clay.”

“And the stone that struck down the statue?”

“In the days of those kings the Lord – the God of heaven – will set up a kingdom which shall never be destroyed. This kingdom is the stone, and like the stone to the statue, it shall break into pieces all these kingdoms and bring them to an end.”

“All these kingdoms to an end… including my own?” Nebuchadnezzar smirked daringly, “Are you confessing to treason, Judaean?”

“Every earthly kingship before you has ended, from Sargon to Sennacherib to his sons to your father,” Daniel’s smile did not falter, “My lord is the God of heaven. The dream is certain, and its interpretation is sure.”

“… So you say,” as he continued, Nebuchadnezzar turned to a window as twilight rays pierced it and beheld the view therein, “My kingdom, united by just codes, stable infrastructure, and strong spears. You claim it is near its end?”

“I cannot claim to know the day nor the hour,” the Judaean responded, “But your kingdom will come to an end eventually, and the reign of the Lord my God will be known in earnest then.”

Nebuchadnezzar was silent for a moment, then chuckled and faced Daniel again, “Perhaps. Perhaps not. I will not lie and say I believe you. But indeed, your people are wise.”

Daniel’s smile fell and his eyes narrowed.

The King continued, “As you know, none of my wisemen have been able to correctly interpret my dream. But not for lack of inspiration. Without exception, they revealed themselves to be sycophants and snakes. They saw only a chance to eliminate their rivals and uplift themselves. None even attempted to console me. Neither have you, of course, faithful to your god as you are… but you have glimpsed at what troubles me.”

“… the end of your kingdom?”

“Legacy,” the King clarified, “You are right. My kingdom will one day come to its end. Whether by your god or another’s, or simply the folly of men. That fall is certain. But, if my legacy, if the legacy of my kingdom, my city… If the name of Babylon is to be preserved and beheld as now and in ancient days… what, say you, should I do?”

Daniel had no answer, and in truth the king did not want one from him; no doubt he would demand some reimbursement for his people. So, Nebuchadnezzar, king of Babylon, raised a hand.

“We will speak more in time. For now, call my guards. They shall escort you back to your quarters,” the King smirked, “Oh, and…. Preach about this meeting however you wish, to your people and mine. I will not besmirch the faith of your God, for you have proved yourself a loyal servant. But, the exact words we have shared are not to be spoken outside these chambers.”

Daniel frowned but nodded.

“Excellent. Await my summons. When I have need of you, we shall speak again.”

And so, the prophet left the King of Babylon. Silence filled the hall of Esagila, the temple of Marduk, and the king let it linger. Indeed, this experiment with dreams had proven a weakness in his kingdom. Some parts of his mind even believed Daniel’s words. But it was all inconsequential. He still lived, he still ruled. So, there was still more to be done.

For his legacy, and that of his city, lofty Babylon.

*

With reverent hands and a silent prayer, a foreign man beheld from a dusty hill a vast ruin of legend.

Once, the ruin he beheld was the jewel of Mesopotamia. The historians of old had marked the city of Babylon as one without equal, with its famed Ishtar Gate and its grand Hanging Gardens. More than that, the legacy of the city had been such that after centuries of conquest, all still bowed to it. From the Assyrians to Nebuchadnezzar’s kin, then the Persians and the Greeks of Macedon. And likely Rome too, though the records for that remained unfound.

The jewel had since been tarnished, however. The records he’d interrogated prior to his visit had confirmed Babylon’s persistence as a settlement long past even the Roman Empire’s fall. But it was only that. A settlement. No longer the greatest city in the world, then soon, not even that. Puzzlingly, the Arabs apparently looted the city for bricks – would it not have been better to bake new ones in the modern style, rather than rely on primitive, millennia-old clay? Regardless, that treatment, and the raids of the Mongols, reduced Babylon to a tiny town on the outskirts of Baghdad; a city which the histories claimed too was past her prime. Had there ever been a greater fall?

The foreigner sighed and wondered aloud, “To think this wreck is where the city of Babylon stood? Truly, time is not kind.”

“Not to those undeserving,” Another voice commented, “Babylon’s peoples made slaves of the Jews, did they not? Then they were enslaved by others, and some records suggest it goes deeper. The city’s history is stained in sin, so I dare say this was deserved. Don’t you think so, Robert?

“… I never took you to be a religious man, Walter,” Robert replied, “Regardless, it can’t have been all bad, can it? If Babylon truly was so stained with evil, surely it would’ve been done away with permanently? Burnt, sacked, lands salted, people dispersed. Perhaps removed from the record as well.”

“If I recall correctly those first four had happened before, if only individually,” Walter mused, “And, well, for the fifth, the city’s administrators after Alexander were lax in record keeping. Does that count?”

“Might as well, for our purposes. Still, barring reasonable doubt… this is it. The great city of Babylon. Perhaps not now, but once. And we remember it as such,” Robert tsked, “Is that the mark of a poor city, to be lauded so for almost all of human history?”

“I suppose not,” Walter conceded, “Though, we can hardly exclude its faults.”

“Nor its achievements,” Robert reminded, “We take the whole measure, as a good archaeologist ought to. Don’t we?”

“Well, we take the measure of what we can find,” Walter smiled, “Now, shall we?”

Robert smirked, “Of course. We can hardly learn the stories of Babylon just sitting around here.”

With that, the two foreign men descended onto the dusty streets of the ruined city. And as the sun of Shamash illuminated the scene with its rays, the mudbricks of the Gate of the Gods watched on.

~0~

Tomas Daniel Asprer is an upcoming writer with interests in fantasy, history, sci-fi and video games. He was born in the Philippines but was raised overseas, and is currently studying in the United Kingdom for an English Literature and Creative Writing degree.

Judge Brett Alan Sanders was impressed by this “bold examination of humanity’s quest for power and significance across the ages,” and he especially enjoyed the combination of ancient history and philosophy.