Garden of Madness (4 page)
“Mother plans to give me again. To the Median prince from her home.”
At this last, he lifted himself from the dirt and paced the stones, a jackal waiting for prey. A chill breeze irritated the palms. Surely he was unhappy with the news? Her self-deception was all that kept her soul from shattering.
He had once been a magnificent man, her father. Regal in bearing, a superior mind. A gift for the long-range planning it took to build such a city, and a skilled politician. Tia had adored him, and he had loved her. Perhaps the only one who ever would.
Sweet memories intruded, thoughts of his laughter at her childish joys.
“Faster, Father, faster!” Twirling her in these very Gardens, his head thrown back with delight, arms tight about her waist.
Had he given up on having sons, embracing instead this last daughter who loved to run and jump and sneak into the courtyard fountain on scorching days? He had indulged her and lavished her with his attention. “You are beautiful, Tia. Smart as a mage, strong enough to change the world.” And then he gave her away and left her fatherless. How had they come to this?
“I do not know what to do, Father. Mother will thrust me from the palace if I refuse to marry again, I know she will.” Tia plucked a rose leaf from its thorny branch and ripped it into green shreds. “I am not afraid of the city, but I do not wish to be a peasant, mucking in the dirt for a pitiful living. If I am not a princess, what am I?”
She waited for his answer. It was her way.
He still paced, like one of his caged panthers kept for the hunt. His blackened nails clicked against the stones. Around his mouth the gore of food crusted his beard.
Tia shuddered. A deep sadness welled up within her, sadness for how far her father had fallen and for how the loss of him had left her stranded. She swiped at hot tears with the back of her hand.
“When will you return to me, Father?”
She had always linked her marriage with her father’s exile. Would her change in status bring about another change, one for which she had prayed to the gods but dared not hope? Her words were a whisper, and he did not slow his tread.
A hard determination flowed into her veins.
She could not, would not marry the Median prince.
But neither could she leave the palace. Her position and her possessions defined her life.
And she could not leave her father.
“I will find another way,” she swore to the king and to the gods of the night if they listened, her voice dangerously loud.
“My destiny is my own.”
Pedaiah laid aside the scroll he’d been studying these many hours, rubbed his burning eyes, and yawned.
A low laugh filtered across the lamp-lit courtyard from a reed chair beside the fountain. “Quitting so early, Pedaiah?”
Pedaiah turned to the beloved voice and squinted to make out the lean form. Daniel held his own scroll to the lamp beside him on a narrow stone column, and Pedaiah smiled. “I’ll not be looking for my bed before you, old man.”
Daniel laughed again but set aside his writings and stood. “Perhaps it is time for a break. For us both.” He looked to the wing of the courtyard, inclined his head to a young man who stood against the wall. The servant hurried forward, eyes on Daniel.
“Melchi, would you be so kind as to bring us some bread and cheese? A little wine, perhaps?” The boy bobbed his head and hurried from the courtyard.
Pedaiah stood and stretched his back, his neck, cramped from so many hours poring over the writings and from the tension of waiting for news of his brother.
Daniel pointed to his scroll. “You are studying Jeremiah’s letters again?”
“Yes. I—I understand what the prophet tells us, but some of our brothers warp his encouragement to be content here, twist it into a defense of their flirtation with Babylon’s detestable idolatry. I desire to find a way to show them their error.”
A clearing of the throat near the front entrance of the courtyard turned their attention to the doorkeeper, a Jew even older than Daniel. He had been installed in his post since Pedaiah was a boy. “A visitor, Chief.”
Daniel waved a beckoning hand and the doorkeeper turned to invite the visitor to the inner courtyard. Pedaiah waited to see who came at this late hour, though it was a common occurrence for Daniel, still sought for his wisdom by the Jews, if not by the Babylonian rulers for years.
A middle-aged man, clearly Babylonian, entered a moment later, head bowed and fingers pressed together in respect. Pedaiah watched with narrowed eyes. He did not care for this type who sometimes came to Daniel at night, their oiled curls and beaded headbands signifying they were magi in Nebuchadnezzar’s court.
“Enlil, is it?” Daniel crossed the courtyard swiftly, hands outstretched in greeting. “Come in, sit. We were about to take some food. Please, join us.”
Enlil’s eyes darted to Pedaiah, and he seemed to sense his animosity. “I cannot stay. I—I have only a question for you.”
Daniel smiled and nodded once.
Pedaiah exhaled, his jaw tight.
This is how it always begins. With questions
.
“Some are saying, in the palace, I mean, I have heard—”
“Speak your question, Enlil. You have only friends here.”
With a look of doubt at Pedaiah, the man took a deep breath. “Do you still teach magi in the ways of the Judaean’s One God?”
Daniel’s answer was solemn, like an oath. “I do.”
“I would like—if I may—I would like to join you.”
The servant returned with food and wine, and Pedaiah thanked him, then busied himself at a small table, pouring two cups and tearing apart the bread. Even with his back to Daniel and the mage, he could feel the warmth of Daniel’s response.
“You may certainly join us, Enlil, if your heart is seeking truth and not simply the satisfaction of curiosity.”
“I want to know more of your One God. I—I have doubts—”
“Then you will come.”
Daniel gave the mage the day and time of their meeting, and instructed him in secrecy.
Pedaiah tore a piece of bread with his teeth, the movement jerky and tense.
The mage fled moments later and Daniel joined him at the table. “You do not approve, son?”
Pedaiah thawed a bit at the term. With his own father in prison these many years, it always warmed him to hear Daniel call him
son
.
“I fear that one day you will welcome the wrong man, one bent on exposing your work, on bringing you to destruction.”
Daniel shrugged. “Perhaps I shall. But it is more than my safety that troubles you, eh?”
Pedaiah dropped to a reed chair, cup in hand. “You are a wonder, Daniel. We all see that. So many years in the king’s court and yet you have not compromised, not allowed yourself to become tainted by this place. But we do not all have your strength.” He set the cup down with a thud. “We must remain separate to remain pure. If we are to survive this chastising, this exile, and return to our land as followers of Yahweh still, we cannot comingle our lives with theirs!” Pedaiah reclined against the chair, a bit winded.
Daniel sipped from his cup and studied Pedaiah. When he spoke, the words were slow, deliberate. “I wish you had been there when they walked from that furnace.”
Pedaiah shook his head, smiling. The story had become legend among the Jews. Daniel’s brash young friends, defying the king’s edict. Thrown into one of the city’s many brick-making furnaces, then walking out unsinged. “How does that—?”
“I saw the king and more than one mage fall on his knees before our One God that day.”
“And one day
all
our enemies will bow the knee! But what is that to us?
We
are His people and must remain true to Him.”
Daniel’s brow furrowed. “And you believe Yahweh loves only the Jews?”
Pedaiah sighed. It was an old argument. One in which he was never the victor. “He loves all people. I know.”
“Loves them. Calls them to Himself. Gives us to them, even. As a lamp stand of truth.”
“And still they grovel before their wooden idols and commit every indecent act of which man is capable.”
“Yes.”
Pedaiah paced, fueled by agitation over his people’s casual attitude toward idolatry, even now. And by the inevitable sacrifice to Babylon that his family would soon make—his own brother. “Would you have me accept their ways, join myself to them?”
“As your brother has?”
“I do not wish to talk of Shealtiel.”
“I am still praying for his recovery.”
Pedaiah kicked a chair from the path of his pacing. “He will not recover. Someone has made certain of that.”
“And you believe Shealtiel’s marriage to the king’s daughter has brought this about?”
“Yes! What else?”
Daniel shrugged. “I have seen you on a few occasions with Tiamat. I would not think you found her so detestable—”
“Stop. Stop, Daniel.” Pedaiah fell into his chair, dropped his face to his hands. “How can you even say such things?”
Daniel edged forward, gripped Pedaiah’s shoulder. “You have acted with honor, Pedaiah. You have no cause for shame. I have watched you remove yourself from the palace, keep yourself distant even when speaking with her. You have hardened a cold shell around your heart, even as you sensed Shealtiel did not appreciate the gift he had been given.”
Pedaiah lifted his face, found it damp. “Shealtiel has been like a blind man all these years, Daniel. It is as though he cannot even see how strong she is, how beautiful and compassionate. How intelligent and driven.” He returned to his pacing. “But how
could
it be a gift? Marriage to one of these pagans?”
Another shuffling at the doorkeeper’s entry. They turned, but there was no need for him to speak. Beside him stood one of the palace messengers, oft employed by Pedaiah’s family in the palace to bring him news. The boy’s face was downcast, his shoulders slumped.
Pedaiah clutched Daniel’s arm but spoke to the messenger. “He is gone?”
The boy nodded.
My brother is dead
.
The news shattered his heart and rocked his senses. It was more than the loss of his elder brother. They were sons of a king, he and Shealtiel. And now Pedaiah was next in the line of David. His father languished in a Babylonian prison and might not live long. When Jeconiah went to his fathers, Pedaiah would be the exiled, but rightful, king of Judah.
He reached for the neckline of his tunic, yanked until the fabric ripped.
Daniel whispered at his side, “Do you want me to accompany you?”
“No. No, I don’t want you to take risks in the palace. I will go.” They stood and Daniel embraced him, which was nearly Pedaiah’s undoing.
He reached the palace before an hour had passed, found the chamber that held his brother’s body, and breathed deeply at its door. Two terrible things he would see in this chamber—Shealtiel lying cold and Princess Tiamat with all her fiery warmth. Pedaiah strengthened his heart for both and pushed open the chamber door.
His mother and Rachel fell upon him immediately, their tears washing his neck. He wrapped an arm around each and they wept together.
Tiamat was not present, thanks be to Yahweh. Pedaiah led his mother and sister to chairs, and they sat with hands clasped, speaking in low tones of Shealtiel, his life, his last days, and the preparations to come.
Behind all of this, a current of thought gushed like a swollen river through Pedaiah’s mind—sometimes cold, sometimes boiling.
Tiamat is now a widow. Tiamat is now free
.
A hard shell, Daniel had called him. Well, he would let nothing penetrate that shell even now.
Nothing.
In the chill of the Gardens, Tia’s limbs deadened with cold. And yet she stayed. The night was birthing a plan.
Her father disappeared to roam the lower tiers. His elite guards manned the entrances at the base of the Gardens, so Tia raced upward. A flush of hope warmed her clammy skin. She descended the spiraling shaft, barely aware of her own steps.
She must return to the death chamber, to Shealtiel.
Marta would still be sitting with his body. She must be.
In the upper corridors she slowed her pace. No need to garner the attention of slaves and attendants. Her mother must not hear of Tia running the halls.
She shoved open the door to the chamber, too eager, for it crashed against the broad back of a man just inside. He turned, taller than her by a head, and frowned.
He had been speaking. She had interrupted.
The next brother in line, the condescending Pedaiah.
His tunic was excessively torn, a peculiarity of Judaean mourning. Tia dipped her head in mute apology and slipped into the room.
“Marta”—she kept her voice low in respect and did not look at her husband, covered now and awaiting his ritual purification— “we must speak together.”
Marta stood with head bowed, a solid wall of grief.
Pedaiah resumed his speech, reciting some sort of prayer in his native tongue.
“Barukh atah Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha’olam, dayan ha-emet.”
Tia stepped away, embarrassed to have intruded. Rachel was no longer present. Tia had no allies in the room.
Pedaiah lifted his eyes to her and translated, with a tilt of his head and a tone that seemed to indicate she was too ignorant to understand the language of his homeland. “Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the universe, the
True
Judge.”
He stressed the
true
, slight enough to go unnoticed, but she understood.
In a land where the king served as ultimate judge, these Jews, captives for over forty years, still insisted that their One God ruled over all. It would be ludicrous if they weren’t so serious.
Yes,
serious
. One of the few traits Pedaiah shared with his dead brother. Both so pious, so formal. So cold.
Pedaiah appeared to finish his recitation, so Tia turned to Marta. “I have been thinking about—about my unfortunate childlessness.” She spoke quietly, to exclude Pedaiah from the conversation.
