Chapter 7

Uninvited Guests

All afternoon Gobryas had been a dynamo of activity. His headquarters tent crawled with messengers—coming, going, waiting, resting between assignments. Generals, lieutenants, guards, and servants all worked feverishly to finish, so that every part of the invasion would be on schedule.

As Gobryas studied a map of Babylon, the chief intelligence officer was ushered into his presence. "Any word from your spies in the city?" he shot back over his shoulder.

"Yes, my lord" replied the officer. "You were right, my lord.¹ Belshazzar has announced a coronation feast to take place this evening. He's declared this a national day of rejoicing that he has ascended to the throne."

"How could anyone rejoice over the coronation of a wild ass?" Gobryas shook his head. "When does the festival begin?"

"At sunset, my lord." The officer smiled. "The chief of supply is already sending large quantities of wine to the troops."

"How convenient," grinned the governor. "It's just a matter of time, then. Belshazzar's playing right into my hand."

Gobryas stared through the opening of his tent, admiring the Ishtar Gate, not a mile away.

A messenger broke his reverie. "My lord, I have a message from the engineer in charge of the river diversion project." His exact pronunciation and upright bearing marked him as a professional page.

Gobryas gestured for the man to continue.

"My lord, the engineer says: 'The army engineers have been working all afternoon. We do not have enough shovels or baskets to do the job properly, but many of our soldiers have shown great zeal. They are using their swords and spears for shovels, and their shields for carrying dirt.'" He paused, according to policy, so the recipient would have time to think over what he'd said.

"Go on, man!" encouraged Gobryas. "What's the message?" The governor sometimes felt impatient with the traditional protocol of career heralds.

"Yes, my lord." The page seemed rattled by Gobryas' prodding. He raised his chin and continued, his demeanor as proper as before. "The engineer says: 'The men have been making good progress on the canal." His speed had not increased, nor did he show any interest in the message's contents or urgency. It seemed his only sense of responsibility lay in delivering the missive in the proper style.

"Well?" cried the governor, on the brink of impatience. "Will they finish the diversion in time for the attack?"

The messenger paused and looked directly at Gobryas—contrary to communication protocol. He seemed visibly upset that the governor had interrupted twice. "Yes, my lord, I was coming to that." His voice trembled with frustration, but otherwise he controlled himself like a professional—though his speed did appear to have increased. "The chief engineer says: 'We will divert the river about midnight. The water should drop to about mid-thigh at the deepest part of the channel.'"

"Good," barked Gobryas, waving his hand toward the door. "Now go give him a message from me: 'I'm pleased with your work, and I count on you to do as you promised.'"

"But, my lord," the messenger objected. "I'm not finished. The engineer gave me the measurements of the canal, and the depth of the water in the lake, and . . ."

"Thank you for your thoroughness." The coolness in Gobryas' voice could have frozen the entire reservoir. "I'll hear the rest another time. Guard!" the governor pointed toward the doorway. "See that this man has safe passage out of camp."

"Yes, my lord."

"Messengers like that get in the way of progress," groaned Gobryas before the man had even left the tent. "Why couldn't he have said: 'The river diversion will be completed on schedule. You can launch your attack at midnight,' or something like that. That would have been enough."

The governor turned to his chamberlain. "When he finishes delivering my message, assign him to the task of carrying letters from our common soldiers to their families back home. Those people will appreciate his exact communication."

The cup-bearer/statesman smiled, but turned at the sound of footsteps approaching the doorway.

"Gadatas?" Gobryas seemed pleased to see an old companion in arms.

"My lord."

"It's so good to see you again, my friend, but we haven't time now for talk." The two stood silently for a moment staring into each other's eyes. Though many years had passed since their last meeting, they seemed but a few moments. The two men felt their souls become as one again.

"My friend." Gobryas broke the silence. "We'll take Babylon tonight, and I want you to lead the southern force.

"Yes, my lord." Gadatas grinned at his good fortune.

"You'll need to leave now in order to reach the portal of the river south of the city in time for the attack." The governor traced the movement on a map. "Move upstream as soon as the river is low enough for your men to wade safely. I'll approach from the north and meet you at Nitocris' bridge. We'll enter the city by way of the gate on the bridge."

"Looks like a good plan," Gadatas returned.

"Be careful of bow-happy Babylonians," added Gobryas. "You'll be within their range all the way up the river."

"We'll be careful, my lord."

"General." The governor spoke to one of his aides. "Introduce General Gadatas to the second division, and see them off."

As the two generals turned to leave, Gobryas took Gadatas by the arm. "We've had many good times together, my friend," he smiled. "Let's plan for many more. Agreed?"

Gadatas grinned. "You can count on me, my lord." He patted Gobryas' hand affectionately. "The city's as good as ours."

The sound of drunken singing wafted over the wall as Persian forces gathered by the river in the darkness. Stars, blinking their jeweled eyes, seemed to hang so close that any interested harvester could have climbed the tallest tree and plucked them out of the sky. The moon's slender crescent lay low over the western hills, as crickets and frogs performed their nocturnal symphonies.

Gobryas moved silently from group to group, checking that each platoon understood its orders.

"My lord," whispered a platoon leader as Gobryas questioned his plans. "Your command requires us to enter by the bridge gate, and move quickly to secure the third tower west of the Ishtar gate." He recited his orders from memory. "On the way we'll subdue anyone we find outdoors. When we reach the tower, we'll destroy or capture the guards, and take possession of the turret ourselves."

"Good," grunted Gobryas. He moved on from one platoon to another, listening to a recitation of each group's orders.

As the moon touched the horizon Gobryas stood at the river's edge. The level had fallen several feet since earlier in the evening, and the water's edge had shrunk far from the dry part of the bank. In the starlight he made visual calculations and estimated the depth.

"Stand by." His whispered order echoed back among the waiting troops.

Using the butt of his spear as a walking stick, Gobryas moved out into the water. Slowly, feeling the river bottom under his foot each time before he put his weight on it, Gobryas soon reached midstream. The level of the water came only half-way up his thigh. Wonderful! he thought. Our time has come!

The sound of reveling and drunken singing grew louder, and Gobryas realized that the city had reached the point of most cordial "welcome" to his troops. "Let's go!" he signaled to his generals. "Move quietly—watch your step, there may be holes . . . and keep a sharp eye out for ambush."

With that he set out, forging ahead of his troops, leading the way. He scanned the river surface for eddies that could betray sink holes, and watched the wall for signs of defenders. He held his shield high in case some alert guard might lob an arrow his way.

On they splashed in silence, hundreds of brave soldiers ready for battle, but hoping to catch the enemy off guard. Step by cautious step Gobryas led the way. Nitocris' bridge loomed into view. Not a sign of defenders anywhere.

In spite of the infirmities of advancing age—he was 62—the governor's ambition to conquer Babylon and bring Belshazzar to justice kept him moving. Years of soldiering in the field had sustained his strength, and now he put it to the test.

As he neared the bridge, Gobryas saw the southern division approaching from the other side. He examined the walls and piers for a convenient way to scale them. Near the place where the bridge joined the eastern wall, he found a narrow ladder extending to the road surface. Nitocris may have installed it for maintenance crews, or for boatmen who needed access to the city—it didn't matter. It offered Gobryas his ticket into Babylon.

The Mede peered upward to assure himself that no guards awaited him, and then began to climb. He had only cleared the water when a soft voice called him back.

"My lord," Gadatas spoke with great urgency. "It's not wise for the commander to lead. What if there's an ambush? How could we complete our mission without you?"

Gobryas felt has face flush with anger and embarrassment. He'd become so engrossed in reaching his goal that he'd forgotten his training and his common sense. He looked at his friend and the hundreds of veteran fighters who stood around him—all men he could trust. Nearest the ladder gathered the platoon he'd assigned to do this work.

Gobryas descended and stepped aside while the commandos scaled the ladder—knives between their teeth. They sprang onto the bridge ready to fight, but it was empty. No one guarded the overpass. The commando leader gave the all-clear signal, and the governor joined them—followed by a steady stream of soldiers.

The Governor of Gutium peered through the darkness at the west end of the bridge, and his mouth dropped open in surprise. The giant cedar gates stood open. Not an enemy soldier in sight!

By this time the bridge had become crowded with Persians, and more ascended the ladder every minute. Gobryas gave the order for the advance platoons to move into the city. Some would enter the old town, while others stormed the new. Their mission: destroy any resistance, take possession of the walls and towers, open the main gates, and sweep out across the city to take control of every important area.

As the Persians moved into Babylon they met occasional groups of drunken soldiers—singing, and joking as they staggered through the streets. When the commandos approached, they mimicked the songs and jokes of their foes', catching them off-guard. By the time the drunks realized that these were enemies, the Persians had either killed or captured them.

Within minutes the forward platoons had cleared the way for Gobryas and Gadatas to enter safely. Surging through the gates with his handpicked men, the commander forged toward the palace. Soon, Gobryas thought, I'll meet my enemy face to face. Then, at last, I'll have vengeance. Justice will have its day, and Belshazzar will be punished for his crime against my son.

The mammoth city of Babylon sprawled over several square miles. It's immense size made communication between its farflung neighborhoods time-consuming at best. Few Babylonian soldiers escaped the onslaught of the Persian commandos. Those who did found difficulty in getting any action from the drunken men they tried to warn in other parts of the city.

The entire eastern half of the old "Inner" city already lay under Persian control before battalions on the west wall knew that anything unusual had happened. Babylon's fall resembled, as it were, a giant parachute as it flutters gracefully to the ground, touching first one edge, folding, flapping in the breeze, drifting . . . at last slumping to the earth . . . its purpose spent.

Though the Persians had secured most of the city, the palace still offered resistance. The guards at the royal gate were warming themselves by a fire. They too had drunk too much wine, but at least they had remembered to lock the palace gates.

When Persian soldiers appeared, the sentries rallied, and attempted to fight. But the struggle ended almost as soon as it began—albeit with much shouting and screaming by the guards.

Belshazzar had just proclaimed Daniel the third ruler of the kingdom when he heard the shouts outside. He became irritated, thinking that the guards were abusing their festive privileges, or that perhaps one of his dancing girls had slipped out to entertain them.

He sent one of his personal guards to quiet them down, and several servants followed out of curiosity. The king's guard surveyed the scene at a glance: most of the gate-keepers lay dead, and Persian soldiers sought ways to jimmy open the gate. No time to waste! he thought. I must warn the king! He turned about and dashed again into the banquet hall to spread the alarm.

The servants ran, looking for some place to hide. One man, thinking only to save his own skin, opened a small gate, and fled into the night—leaving the door open. Gobryas' men needed no invitation. They swarmed through the small opening, and regrouped inside for the final attack.

The Persians charged into the festal hall, ready for any resistance they might meet. Pandemonium broke loose. Tables toppled as guests clamored to escape death by Persian sword. Wine goblets jangled onto the pavement, their contents splattering on the glazed tile surface, causing it to become slippery.

Resistance in the banquet hall ended quickly as guard after guard threw down their weapons and surrendered. Few Babylonians felt inclined to sacrifice their lives for a scoundrel like Belshazzar. Some of the nobles and generals fought the intruders out of honor, but the odds were against them and they soon tasted the sword.

Belshazzar, bewildered by the train of events, whipped out his dagger, preparing to fight his enemies. They ignored him, and spent their time rounding up captives. They grouped soldiers into a huddle opposite the throne. They gathered the lords and ladies at the extreme end of the hall, and assembled the concubines, dancers, musicians, and servants in still another area.

Into this scene of loss and horror strolled a tall, thin man, whose noble bearing marked him as royalty. He had changed from his soggy field clothes into judicial garb, carried into the city by his personal servant. The common riffraff among the Babylonians took him for Cyrus. Belshazzar, Daniel, and Nitocris knew better. Gobryas, Governor of Gutium, had come to avenge himself for a crime inflicted upon his son years before by King Belshazzar.

Gobryas stood in the entryway for a moment, surveying the scene. He saw the captive people, the bodies of guards and nobles who'd resisted, and the tables and floor cluttered with the remains of what had once been a sumptuous feast.

He eyed the still glowing letters on the far wall, and easily read them—guessing correctly at their meaning. He recognized the old man who stood beside Belshazzar, and suspected why the king had called him. He'd seen the wise man years before in Nebuchadnezzar's court.

Belshazzar's eyes met those of Gobryas, but quickly glanced away. His world seemed at an end. Within hours of his self-proclaimed coronation as king of the world's greatest empire, he had suffered several serious reverses. The handwriting on the wall stunned him, his mother had scolded him, his highest counselor had berated him and judged him a total loss.

Now, after giving Daniel a position of highest honor, Cyrus' well-disciplined army—led by his own personal enemy—wrested his kingdom from him . . . and would probably take his life as well. Belshazzar's knees buckled, and he slumped to the floor, too weak to stand. He knew his end must be near.

Gobryas studied the three figures on the platform. Nitocris smiled at him, her eyes betraying a long buried admiration for the hero from Gutium. Daniel revealed no outward expression, but stood erect, confident that God would protect him, or grant him grace for any trial.

Belshazzar groveled on the floor. "No!" he cried. "Not Gobryas! Go away! Go away! I don't want to see you!"

He covered his head—like the proverbial ostrich burying his head in the sand. Sobs wracked his form as terror took possession of his soul. Saliva dribbled from the corners of his mouth into his beard. His pupils dilated, his nostrils flared, his mouth hung open, fists clinched, and muscles taut.

Gobryas mounted the steps, and upended the royal table, sending gold and silver utensils flying. He stood beside the king, sword drawn, his frame towering over the royal wretch. "So, Belshazzar," he sneered, "we meet again. Be sure your sins will find you out."

Turning to Daniel, the governor smiled. "You've served your masters well, Belteshazzar. I'll also have important work for you." He bowed to show his respect for the old man. "You may go, if you wish. You need not witness the justice I must bring upon this evil man." Turning to a Persian guard, he said: "Escort this man anywhere he wishes to go, and stay with him to see that no harm comes to him."

Belshazzar's mind raced as he realized his peril. He remembered the first time he had seen Gobryas . . . a more happy time . . . about thirty years before.

Gobryas the Mede had been a famous general in the Babylonian army when Nebuchadnezzar made him governor of Gutium. He had met with Nabonidus when the statesman had represented Babylon on a diplomatic mission to settle a war between Media and Lydia. During the proceedings, Nabonidus had become friendly with the Gutiumite, and suggested that a marriage alliance would help to cement relations between their countries.

Nabonidus lusted for the beautiful daughter of Gobryas, and wished he could have her for himself. But he knew that his father-in-law Nebuchadnezzar would be angered by such an arrangement. However she would make a fine wife for Belshazzar. In return, he offered to give his daughter as a wife for Gobryas' oldest son.

The two high-ranking fathers settled the agreement between themselves, and Gobryas' son accompanied Nabonidus back to Babylon to make the wedding arrangements.

Gobryas had not considered the differences between Belshazzar and his father. While Nabonidus was a fine gentleman, his son had grown up a stubborn, self-centered, snob, who demanded his own way whatever the cost to others. Nabonidus realized the defects in his son's character. He hoped that marriage and other responsibilities would correct his spoiled personality.

The Prince of Gutium soon recognized Belshazzar for the fool he was. He began to despise this two-faced schemer, and decided to break up the marriage plans. He wanted to spare his sister a lifetime of misery with such scum.

The Prince made a mistake, however, in telling Belshazzar how he felt and what he intended to do. The spoiled child of Nabonidus, by now had become filled with lust for the beautiful girl who had so swayed his father's heart. He refused to allow anything or anyone to stand in his way of having her. When he realized that the Prince would wreck the wedding, he made some murderous plans of his own.

One day Belshazzar made a proposal to the royal son of Gobryas. "I understand you like to hunt."

"Yes," replied the Prince. "I'm one of the best hunters in Gutium."

"I'll bet you've never bagged a Mesopotamian lion."

"No." The young man seemed interested. "Do you know where we could find one?"

"One, did you say?" Belshazzar laughed. "We have so many lions in Babylonia that one Assyrian king boasted he killed 970 of them in a single hunt."

"Really?"

"Yes. I know the whereabouts of a whole pride, and it's not far from the city." He put his arm around the prince's shoulders. "I'd be happy to help you get one for your collection."

The prince became excited, and began laying plans for the hunt.

"We can't take anyone with us," advised Belshazzar. "The more people we have, the more likely the lions will run from us."

"But I'm used to having a hunting companion," complained the Prince. "My guard has often gone with me. He's an excellent huntsman too. Can't I take him?"

"O, I suppose so." Belshazzar's tone of voice discouraged the idea. "But I'll be your companion. Two will be much more likely to find the lions than three."

The Prince felt a little uncomfortable with the idea, but he wanted the lion trophy so much that he ignored his better judgment. "O.K." he agreed. "You be my companion. We'll go alone."

Belshazzar smiled as the two rode through a southern gate, crossed the Euphrates on a ferry, and headed out onto the plain. His scheme was working better than he had imagined.

No one in Babylon ever found out the truth of what happened out there on the plain. When the hunting party returned the Prince of Gutium lay lifeless across his saddle, mauled by an angry lion. Belshazzar had torn his own clothes, and put ashes upon his head to show his grief.

Belshazzar told the story many times: The Prince had fallen off his horse when the animal balked at the charge of a male lion. The lion mauled him to death before Belshazzar could rescue him.

The Prince's Gutiumite guard accused Belshazzar of murder, but no one listened. Nitocris felt uneasy about Belshazzar's story. It didn't make sense to her, but Nabonidus didn't ask any questions. Instead, he talked with the judge, and bought a favorable decision. The local court declared the son of the Babylonian noble innocent, and ruled the death an accident. Belshazzar got off without even a slap on the wrist.

Gobryas and his daughter were furious even while they grieved for their loss. They canceled the wedding plans, broke off the family alliance with Nabonidus, and swore vengeance upon the one responsible.

Belshazzar had never forgotten the incident, but to him it had been only one of hundreds of crimes he'd committed through the years. But his memory no longer haunted him, for the ghost of the dead prince's father was all too real now. The angry general hovered over him breathing out the fires of revenge and the finest troops of Persia stood ready to enforce his will. The person who'd devised one scam after another all his life now faced retribution from the Governor of Gutium, and there was no escaping justice this time.

Belshazzar stood before what had once been his throne, now clothed only in a loincloth. The Persians striped away his kingly garments, and bound his arms tightly together behind his back—the elbows touching—causing exquisite pain to flow throughout his body. His consciousness slid from side to side, making it difficult for him to concentrate. If the Persian guards hadn't held him fast, he would have been unable to stand.

One witness after another gave testimony regarding Belshazzar's heinous crimes. He repeatedly declared his innocence, but in his stony heart of hearts, he knew that each one spoke the truth.

As the crowning indictment, Gobryas introduced Belshazzar's murder of the Prince of Gutium—the governor's own son.

"I call to the stand the captain of my body-guard," declared Gobryas.

Belshazzar became agitated when he recognized the military man who came forward. He had been chief of the guards who had accompanied the prince to Babylon years ago.

The governor spoke to the soldier before he began his testimony. "The official Babylonian record says that my son died 'by the claw of the lion'—an accident. Please tell the court what YOU saw."

"He couldn't have seen anything!" cried Belshazzar, numb with pain and exhaustion. "We were alone when I . . . ." He stopped short, realizing that he'd already said too much.

"Belshazzar!" roared Gobryas. "You've incriminated yourself!" The governor's inner rage rose to the top and began to spill over. He grabbed for his sword as he bounded from the throne, and had raised it above his head before reason managed to bring his emotions under control.

His nose came to within a hair of Belshazzar's, and the prisoner trembled at the blazing fire that burned within the governor's eyes. "But we don't use a man's own testimony as evidence against him!" He spat out the words as he slammed his sword into its sheath and returned to his seat. "Guard", he shouted. "Tell us what you saw!"

"My lord." The guard shifted his weight to his right foot, and began to stroke his black beard. "When my lord, the prince, left the city with . . . ." He paused and pointed at Belshazzar, anger twisting his face. ". . . with this man, my lord, I felt uneasy. I'd seen some of his dishonest dealings with his own countrymen, and I didn't trust him."

"Dishonest dealings?" asked Gobryas, regaining his composure.

"My lord, he lied continually to his personal servants and his own guards. I once saw him cheat one of his nobles out of the interest due him on a loan."

"Go on," prompted the judge.

"When they left the city," the guard continued, "I followed at a distance. They rode into the desert, and eventually came to an outcropping of rocks that appeared to contain a cave. The two sat on horseback, side by side, whispering. Belshazzar pointed toward the rocks, and the prince seemed to gaze intently at them.

"Then I saw Belshazzar draw his knife and stab the prince . . . in the back!" He shouted, the fury painting his face a pastel pink.

He paused to regain his composure, but his anger and the bottled grief of thirty years overcame him in a rush. "The prince tried to draw his sword, but he lost his balance and fell off his horse. Belshazzar . . ." He pointed toward the defendant, barely able to talk, "that man deliberately trampled him to death with his horse!"

"Why didn't you try to save him?" Gobryas' heart ached as the father in him felt the old wound opened all over again.

"I was too far away, my lord." The guard sounded as though he pled for his own life. "By the time I realized what was happening, the prince was already dead!" His voice rose almost to a scream. He clinched his fists to the sides of his head as though he felt it would explode. "I wanted to charge down there and kill him . . . wring his neck with my bare hands."

He sighed and looked up at the ceiling, licking his lips, trying to regain his composure. When he spoke again his utterance rose only a little above a whisper. "But I thought you should know the truth, my lord. So I turned and fled."

"That will be all." Gobryas had managed to squeeze all emotion from his voice, and it flattened out into a monotone.

He turned to Nitocris who'd been sitting in the seat of honor near the edge of the platform. Tears streaked her paper-white face, and yet her bearing displayed nobility and grace. "My lady." The warmth had returned to Gobryas' voice. "You've heard the testimony against your son, the king of Babylon. Do you have anything to say?"

She slowly rose from her chair and stepped down from the platform, walking to Belshazzar's side. The moisture seeping from the corners of her eyes as she looked into his pain-wracked face, formed into great drops that meandered down her cheeks.

"O my son," she moaned, touching his cheek with her open hand. "You were such a disappointment to me—and so was your father."

She buried her face in her hands and sobbed, her body shaking violently. Gobryas stepped to her side and supported her for several minutes. The banquet hall, so recently filled with music and merry-making lay as silent as a tomb. None of the thousand noble guests, the hundreds of servants, or the Persian soldiers who guarded them, dared make a sound.

The queen mother quieted and looked again at her son. "I heard the loud arguments you had with the prince of Gutium." She spoke with an intensity that sent electric ripples up the spines of every spectator. "And when you returned with his body . . . I knew what had happened!"

Her voice choked as she continued. "But your father . . . he covered it up . . . he persuaded the judge to declare it an accident. They should have punished you then, my son—executed you for murder!"

She wiped her eyes before she continued. "I didn't want you to die any more than Nabonidus did, but he never even scolded you. He was supposed to uphold justice, but when faced with the crime of his own son . . . he became corrupt."

She looked at her hands, and touched her chest and neck—absentmindedly pinching her throat between her thumb and forefinger. "I loved both of you, of course . . . I still do. But your behavior in regards to the Prince of Gutium made me lose my respect for you and your father as defenders of truth and justice."

Nitocris returned to the platform and slumped into her chair. She lowered her head, and supported it with the palm of her left hand.

Gobryas stood before the throne. "You have heard the evidence against the defendant," he intoned, pointing his commander's staff toward the royal prisoner. "Belshazzar, I find you guilty of the murder of my son, and of many other crimes against your own people."

He paused, looking around the large room at the mixed audience. "By the laws of the Medes and the Persians, I hereby sentence you to death for your crimes. Executioner!" He motioned to a soldier who carried a large double-edged sword. "Do your work."

A rising murmur of voices swept through the crowd as the guards made Belshazzar kneel. He sat down on his heals, his head bent forward to expose the nape of the neck. The headsman raised his sword, grasping it with both hands, and held it—suspended for a moment—above the head of the former king.

Nitocris closed her eyes and covered her mouth with a handkerchief to stifle any scream that might try to escape. Her son . . . her guilty, foolish son . . . was about to die. She felt her heart would break. She wanted to cry out "Stop!," to run to his side and take the blow herself, but she knew such efforts would be useless. Everything revealed about him during the trial had been the truth. He deserved to die.

The executioner's sword flashed downward, deadly accurate. It severed head from body with one swift stroke. The head tumbled onto the cluttered floor, eyes starring blankly into space. The body remained kneeling for several seconds before it rolled onto its side. Belshazzar was dead.

Gobryas spoke to the Babylonian nobles and ladies, the servants, musicians, and dancers. "I wanted you to witness this trial," he announced, "so that you might know that Cyrus and Gobryas believe in strict justice." He stroked his beard as he continued. "We've come to release you from the tyranny of your former masters who held you captive to their command. You'll soon know what it means to be free."

The Median governor turned to speak to one of his aides, and then continued. "It may take us a few days to bring order and safety to the city. I ask you to go to your homes and to stay there. My men will accompany you so you won't suffer danger from other soldiers in the city."

While the executioner's men gathered Belshazzar's remains, and Persian soldiers began leading the people to their homes, Gobryas moved to the queen mother's side. "My lady." He knelt on one knee, took her hand in his, and kissed it. "We've both suffered the loss of our sons." He paused to allow his pounding heart to calm. "My heart aches for you just now, for I know the pain you feel."

Nitocris smiled through her tears. "When I was a young girl," she said, dabbing her handkerchief at moisture collecting in the corner of Gobryas' eye, "you were my favorite general in father's army. He used to tell me stories of your exploits, and I've always admired your bravery."

She looked away for a moment, swallowing the sob that forced its way into her throat. "And I've also admired your gentleness. I've known for many years about you're oath of vengeance against my son. It was well-grounded, as everyone can see.

"But tonight you acted the gentleman in every way. You could have stormed in here and killed him with your own sword. You could have tortured him mercilessly like many conquerors do to their royal captives. No one could have stopped you.

"But you didn't do that. You held court so everyone could see that my son . . ." her voice broke, again, ". . . how guilty he was. Then you punished him according to the laws of justice."

Gobryas put his hand under her chin and lifted her head so he could gaze into her eyes. "You may remain in the palace if you like," he said. "You shall always have a place of honor—as long as you live." She smiled and nodded as He rose without further word, bowed to her, and left the banquet hall.

The once-flaming letters had faded from the wall, and the light from the lamp stand flickered with the last drops of oil. Babylon, the joy of the Chaldee's kingdom, the light of the world . . . Babylon had fallen, never to rise again.

Nitocris leaned heavily upon her maid as she left the disheveled ballroom. The shock and grief of the last hours left her aging body near collapse. At 68 she still maintained a youthful figure, and the beauty of yesteryear lingered on her face. The worry of Belshazzar's delinquency, the separation from her now fleeing husband—and the awareness that her father's beloved Babylon was falling into alien hands—had taken their toll.

In a small courtyard behind the banquet hall she found Daniel. "May Yahweh bless you, honored lady," he said. "Your pain is too great for you to bear alone."

Nitocris stopped. She smiled weakly at her friend, and motioned him to a bench near the wall. "What happened, Daniel? Why did my son turn out so bad?"

Daniel bowed before her, and took her hand in his, seeking to comfort her grief. "Belshazzar was weak, my lady, and Yahweh knew his weakness." He wiped his own eyes, as a teardrop began to form at the corner of his lashes. "Yahweh wanted to protect him, to help him make right choices . . . but he refused. He knew about God's power and greatness. He knew how God had humbled your father's heart. He was free to choose the right way . . . and Yahweh would have blessed him if he had."

The old prophet squeezed her hand. "When Belshazzar refused to serve Yahweh, he also rejected His protection. God gave him up to his bad habits, and these led him to become even worse."

Daniel looked away for a moment. "Tonight, when Belshazzar drank from the sacred vessels of God's temple, he not only desecrated those vessels, but he also profaned his own body temple with the wine he drank. He chose to ignore God as much as he could . . . to use the powers God gave him for feasting and drinking instead of for administering justice and mercy. God loved him more than you did, but He didn't have any choice. He finally had to let him go, to give him up to his passions.

"So when the Medes and the Persians attacked the empire, God couldn't protect either your husband or Belshazzar. You saw the results of their decision tonight. I'm sorry you've been so terribly hurt by the wrongs of others."

"Thank you, Daniel," she said, squeezing his hand. "May the blessing of your God rest upon me."

¹(The intelligence officer had originally presented the idea of the coronation feast, but proper court courtesy required that all correct decisions be applied to the king—in this case Gobryas.)

Chapter 8