Shushan
Normally, Motya treasured this view and this place. As a child he often climbed to the roof of the family estate just to sit and watch the sunrise or sunset. Since their house was taller than any others in the area, save the palace, he could see for miles and he would imagine that he could see forever
This evening was different though. His mood was dark and he wished the skies were filled with thick and foreboding clouds. He hated that there was so much beauty. It would be so much easier if the sky would cry with him.
Everything was carefully planned and, so far, there were no setbacks, just as his mother foretold. “Mo”, his mother always called him Mo, “don’t be afraid. You know this will happen just as the Almighty said it must. It is you and your family that must inherit this estate. It is you that must carry the family forward. It matters little that you are the youngest. You have been chosen.”
Josef, his oldest brother, along with his wife Noemi, were called to a conference with a representative of the king of India and would not be back for at least a month, maybe two.
Daniel, the second born, was in transit with his wife Rina and his sister Ziva, to Jerusalem for the Shavuot pilgrimage. It would take them ten days just to get there and with the time for the holy days and the trip back, Daniel would be gone for nearly a month. He wanted to take Mo with him, but mother said no, explaining that she needed Mo to stay close to home (Again! Daniel thought to himself) to help care for his father. Instead mother told him to take Ziva with him.
Their father was already bedridden. He had lost most of his mind to dementia with lucid moments coming less frequently all of the time. He was depressed and confused and these days wanted nothing more than to be told what to do day and night. It was a hard burden that had fallen more and more on Mo alone. He was also weaker and more dependent on Mo, even for the messy necessities of life. This, like everything, was foretold by his mother, but she only confided in Mo.
His mother told him earlier today that his father would not make it through the day tomorrow and then she said much more. “Get up early. Sit with your father. Give him soup. Massage his tired back and arms. Help him with anything he wants. He won’t want much, though. Before noon, your father will become lucid and he will remain so all the way to the end.”
Mo moved away from the rail on the roof. He couldn’t see anyway, his eyes full of tears for himself and his father. He cried and he moaned, “Why do I have to be the one to lead the family?” Mo wiped the tears away and pushed his hands hard to his face and he squeezed his eyes shut so tight that his head hurt. He was beside himself with anguish and turned toward Jerusalem and raised his clenched hands on high and implored, “God, You give me this task and I am not ready. You should have chosen Josef. He is the eldest and the wisest. Why must I be father’s choice!”
Mo fell toward the rail, nearly toppling over.
Falling heavily on his butt, Mo regained his equilibrium and his head cleared. He sat there a minute and got up. Walking to the rail and leaning on it he looked toward Jerusalem and thought about the rest of the things his mother said to him. “Your father knows he is dying and the end is near. He doesn’t have to be told or pitied. He will know his duty. All you have to do is show resolve and strength. Respect his commands. Let him know you are ready to accept your responsibilities.
“When your father says he is ready, he will ask you to summon the officials. Make sure that Mordecai, son of Jair, is included. You know who they are. All are alerted and ready to witness. Tell him that Mordecai will be there as well.. He will say yes. That is important. I will be around as well, but not in the room with you.”
Mo looked in his mother’s eyes. He spoke with as much resolve as he could, “I understand mother that it is God’s will, but what about you? When you are gone from this earth, where will I get my council from? How will I know God’s will then?”
His mother looked at her son softly and said, “You will have your council after I am gone and you will know from where when you need it. Allay your fears Mo.”
She signaled and Mo knew to take his leave.
__________________________________________________________________________________
Dhiban
To tell the truth, Zethar preferred dark places. All of his life, it seemed, dark thoughts and actions, intimidation, and fear, were the norm. They dominated him every moment. The only time he was praised was when he attacked others. Even then, not always.
When he was at work in the palace, a place which so often was filled with light and good cheer, he filled his mind with brooding thoughts. As much as he could, he found ways to be alone. In his office, he covered the window with a heavy curtain and there in the dark he would sit and brood over all the things in his life where others plotted against him and how eventually he would have his vengeance.
Here, in the underground headquarters of Tsasham, Army of Amalek, it took no effort to concentrate on the worst he would do to destroy the kingdom of Ahasuerus, the Jew lover, the drunken nobody who thinks he is so important.
Zethar knew better, and that is why he was in Dhiban. Dhiban, the once mighty capital of Moab, when it was known as Dibon, where, an alliance between Moab and Edom could count on an army of Moabites, Edomites, and Amalekites of more than 5,000 to fight to annihilate the Jews and their friends.
Now, after over 300 years, they were getting ready to strike again.
In this dark, hot, dry room, Zethar sat on a plain wooden stool unsettled and sipping on his sheichar waiting to be told that Aluf Alborz was ready to see him. He longed for action. He was tired of espionage.
His mood turned even darker. Seeking only the comfort that pain brought him, he pushed his hands hard to his face and he squeezed his eyes shut so tight that his head hurt. What a glorious sensation! Now, newly invigorated from the pain, he got up to refresh his sheichar. Zethar recalled the instructions given to him over the last couple years.
Find the Edomites and Moabites in the realm of Ahasuerus. Educate them on the awful, feared, and wondrous people they were. Promise them that they can regain that respect again, but only under the leadership of those who followed the teachings of Ba’al. Call them Ba’alians. Convince them that the only thing that is holding them back is the unholy alliance of the Shushanites and the Jews.
Zethar sat, staring straight ahead. In his mind he was counting the number of small groups he had already recruited. He was anxious to report…
SLAM!!!
Unnerved, Zethar’s head jerked up to see Aluf Alborz standing only four feet away from him, staring intently, menacingly, directly into his eyes. Zethar was terrorized, not for the first time. He fell to his knees, shaking, now refusing to meet the Aluf’s eyes. How long had he been there?! This was not the way it should be happening. It never did before.
“Follow me!” barked the Aluf, turning on his heels, opening the door and storming out.
Zethar jumped to his feet and rushed to follow. Through the next room and the next, then down steps they reached a heavy door guarded by an enormous man, head covered and eyes masked; he was dressed entirely in black. He was holding a heavy curved ax. Zethar recognized the executioner. Fighting to not lose control of his body, Zethar followed the Aluf into the dungeon. The executioner entered and slammed the door behind them.
“Sit there”, said the Aluf pointing to a sturdy armchair, “and sit up straight.” The Aluf nodded to the executioner who then secured Zethar’s arms, back, and legs to the chair and pulled out a heavy spike and hammer.
Zethar was sweating profusely and he suddenly realized that he soiled himself and stank.
“Report” growled the Aluf.
Zethar opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
The Aluf again nodded to the executioner, who moved toward Zethar’s hand with the spike.
“Wait” whimpered Zethar.
His nose running, his eyes now stinging, Zethar struggled to speak. “I have succeeded and met my objectives.” He looked at the Aluf pleadingly.
“Oh,” said the Aluf with disdain. Then he yelled “Avah Marduwth!”, “Son of a Slut” “Details! I want details.”
Zethar squirmed, but was calming down. He realized that the Aluf was giving him a chance, and with that, he reported on the number of cells he had created, the number of fighters that represented, and their readiness to move at his orders.
The Aluf turned away from Zethar and for a long time just stood there. ----- He then turned around and walked toward Zethar as he pulled out his curved heavy knife from his belt. He cut the ties that held Zethar to the chair and motioned for him to follow.
They went up the stairs to a room that had a large table with a large vessel of sheichar and several mugs.
The Aluf pointed to another door and alluding to Zethar’s stink, told him to go clean up and return.
He did as told as quickly as he could, but was surprised to see upon his return that the table was now set with two plates with small knives and a platter with a large bowl of mutton stew. “Serve yourself” ordered the Aluf and Zethar ladled a large helping for himself.
“I am glad you did not crack. You are now promoted to S’Gan Aluf. In Shushan you report only to my sister. Do not give her reason to send me any messages. Listen carefully, as you will be required to report back in one year, the next objective is critical to our mission.”
