Word Fulfilled, The (15 page)

Jamin crossed his arms and waited for his father to regain control. He hoped it was painful.

“So.” Obadiah sniffed and brushed a tear from the corner of his eye with a knuckle. “What’s her name?”

“I don’t know.”

His father stared at him. “You don’t know?”

“Not yet.”

Obadiah searched the ground at his feet for the right words. When he looked back up, his brow was knit. “Where did you meet her, Son? What family is she from, what tribe?”

Jamin ground his jaw. “It’s a long story, Father. I don’t have those answers yet.”

“Is that why you want to go back?”

“Yes.” Jamin’s eye twitched. It wasn’t the whole truth, but it wasn’t a lie, either.

Obadiah raised an eyebrow. “She’s not . . . you didn’t . . .”

Jamin reddened. “No. It’s nothing like that.”

The elder man pursed his lips.

“Please believe me, Father. I’ve never given you cause to distrust me, have I?”

Obadiah shook his head. “No, you haven’t.”

Jamin frowned. “I’ll need help telling Mother. I don’t think she’ll understand.”

“How soon do you want to go?”

“Soon. When I can find another boat going upriver.” Jamin paused. “Father, Uncle Hiram said he could always use the help. I will be useful there.”

His father smiled. “I know you will, Son.” His face grew serious. “We will want you back soon, though. We deserve some answers.”

“I know, Father. Thank you.”

The door swung open and Judith’s smiling face poked out. “Supper!”

Twenty

Aššûr

Twentieth Day of Simanu

onah peered through the western gate as the portal opened for another day of commerce. A narrow road led across a thin strip of ground enclosed on both sides by rubble walls faced with sun-baked brick. The newer outer wall stood proud and strong against the morning sky, while the inner wall sagged under the weight of its age. The older structure featured pockmarked, decaying brickwork with variegated signs of patching and refurbishment applied at intervals throughout the centuries. It looked tired. Jonah sighed and empathized with the decrepit bulwarks as his old joints reminded him of every step he had taken across the desert.

Once through the gap, he found himself on a modest street in a residential area. Private houses lined both sides. Most of them appeared new. He walked toward the city center, where the size and newness of the buildings diminished. Older quarters now assumed prominence, most neglected and some in serious disrepair.

The street dead-ended into a broader avenue after it entered the inner-city district. Jonah stood at the convergence of the two roads, and pondered which route would take him to the riverside. To the right, a row of low structures wound around a bend. To the left, he could see the tops of taller buildings above the low houses. Their silhouettes girded the morning sky, aglow with the aura of a brilliant sun that crowned the eastern hills.

Jonah decided the larger buildings meant a business area, which would more likely lead to the primary waterway that supplied the city with irrigation, sustenance, and, most importantly, transportation. He turned to the north and plodded along the boulevard.

Soon the road broadened into a large square bordered by a low wall on the left. The buildings he had keyed on came into view, and he stopped in his tracks. Spaced along a wide avenue through the plaza were pillared structures that could only be temples. Pagan temples. Jonah set his jaw and pressed forward. The road forced him to pass between the heathen shrines.

As he came abreast of the first building on his right, movement between the columns caught his eye. He glanced up the steps and slowed to a stop. On the portico milled a bevy of women clad in varying degrees of immodesty. The prophet’s jaw dropped at his first encounter with temple prostitutes. He stood mesmerized at the bizarre sight, his stare broken only when one of them turned and flashed an alluring smile at him. Heat flooded his head when she raised a hand and beckoned. It suddenly occurred to him what she was. Jonah had heard of cult prostitutes, a
qerashah
in his own tongue, but had never seen them in such numbers or so brazenly displayed in public. He knew from lore that, in Israel, cult prostitutes veiled themselves and lured their victims in a much more subtle fashion. Here, in Assyria, they flaunted themselves openly and shamelessly. He tore his gaze from the woman and lurched ahead to distance himself from the vile shrine.

His path took him between more buildings, which he assumed also to be temples, although their steps were devoid of women. Finally, he came to a walled complex that looked more like a palace than a temple. The upper terraces of a stepped tower rose above complex. He recalled the mental image he had formed of the Tower of Babel, when, as a young boy, his father told him the story of man’s frustrated attempt to equal himself with God. The ziggurat rose darkly into the morning sky, a stark reminder of how far behind he had left the Promised Land.

The road forced Jonah to the left where it led between the walled complex and the largest temple in the plaza. He skirted the wall and found himself perched atop a rocky slope that dropped off to the Idiqlat River. Jonah stopped to catch his breath, unsure of where to turn. He scanned both directions and glimpsed a narrow road tucked against the wall to his right. The path led downward along the face of the hill and then leveled out by the river. He took a deep breath and set off toward the water.

The road opened into a courtyard of another even more imposing temple that commanded the high ground above the great river. He reckoned this one to be quite important, given its size and position on the promontory where the Idiqlat River wound around the rock bluff from the west and continued its unhurried journey southward. He shook his head in disgust at the heathen monument.

Jonah turned his attention to the waterfront. Countless landings stretched along the peninsula and disappeared around the bend of the headland. Boats of various sizes and shapes tethered to trees and boulders along the bank sent gentle ripples into the quiet current of the river flowing past. He tried to guess which might be the
quppu
and which the
kalakku
that Jamal had spoken about. There were too many that seemed to fit both descriptions, though, and he gave up any attempt to identify them. It didn’t matter anyway. He intended to find the largest, most stable barge he could find, no matter how long it took to get to Nineveh.

With a glance at the sun ensconced in the eastern sky, he picked his way down to the river.

I hope someone here speaks Hebrew.

Lll

Jamin finished his breakfast quietly. News of his intent to return to Nineveh had not set well with his mother the evening before.

“You remember today is your father’s birthday.”

Her subdued tone pricked his heart. “Yes, Mother.”

She opened her mouth to continue, but then stopped.

Obadiah glanced up. “Judith, I know this is difficult, but Jamin is right. He has his life and he needs to live it. He can’t stay in our house forever.” He reached for his wife’s hand, but she shifted just beyond his reach. Her moist eyes remained on a morsel of bread she was fingering into crumbs.

“Mother, I won’t be leaving for another couple of days. Tomorrow at the earliest. I’ll look for passage upriver this morning. I don’t know how soon I’ll find something.” Jamin’s voice beseeched at least her acquiescence, if not her blessing.

“How long will you be gone this time?” She brushed the remains of the bread crust from her tunic.

“I don’t know. Not long, I hope. I’m just not sure.” Jamin threw a pleading look at his father.

Obadiah shrugged.

“I’ll see to your travel bag.” His mother rose from her seat and padded to the back of the room. She stopped near Jamin’s sleeping niche and stooped to pick up his blanket. She kept her back to the men while she folded the blanket.

Jamin cleared his throat. “I’d better get down to the river. It may take awhile to arrange passage.”

His father nodded.

Lll

Jonah’s quest for a boat went poorly. The few boatmen who stopped to listen just shook their heads at his words. He tried to gesture, point at the boat and then the river, and to over-enunciate “Nineveh . . . Nin-e-veh . . . Ninnn-ehh-vehh.” That usually resulted in an annoyed scowl and a turned shoulder.

By midmorning, having experimented with every possible way to gesticulate and pronounce “Nineveh,” Jonah was at his wit’s end. How was he supposed to preach repentance in a land where he couldn’t even arrange a simple boat ride? He flung a rock into the water, and his words grated with exasperation. “This is impossible! What am I even doing here?”

“Excuse me. Are you an Israelite?” Jamin paused on the hillside path to address a slight, white-haired man.

The man looked startled. “Yes. Do you speak Hebrew?”

Jasmin twitched an eyebrow at the silly question. “Yes. I’m a Jew. I live here in Aššûr.”

The old man rose from the boulder, relief all over his face.
“Halelu-yah!
I didn’t know there were Hebrew-speaking Jews in Aššûr.”

“There is a community of us who follow
Adonai
and retain the old language. My name is Jamin.” He stepped closer and held out his hand.

Jonah grasped his wrist. “I’m Jonah. I’ve been sent by
Adonai
to preach to the people of Nineveh.”

“You are a prophet?” Jamin’s eyebrows shot up. He’d heard of prophets, but living in Assyria afforded little opportunity to meet one.

“I am. Well, I’m supposed to be.” Jonah frowned. “I came by caravan as far as Aššûr, where I intended to take the river to Nineveh. But I can’t seem to arrange passage. I don’t speak the Assyrian tongue.”

Jamin knit his brow. How does one prophesy to people when he can’t speak their language? He took another look at Jonah. Nothing in the frail-looking man before him fit the mental image Jasmin had formed of a prophet of God. A holy man who carried the word of the Living God would be robust, confident, strong, exuding purpose from every pore in his body . . . wouldn’t he? Jasmin looked again.

Jonah fidgeted, sniffed, and scrubbed a sleeve across his nose. A self-conscious smile touched his lips for a second, then he stared at the ground, exuding awkwardness from every pore in his body.

Jamin shrugged. “Perhaps I can help you. I’m seeking passage to Nineveh, too.”

Jonah’s eyes lit up. “I would be very grateful. I can work for my passage.” His voice faltered. “I’m afraid I don’t have much silver.”

“No matter. Boatmen have little use for silver. They barter in labor and goods. We should be able to find someone going north within a day or two.”

Jonah nodded, his relief evident. “I’ll let you do the talking.”

“That would be good.”

Lll

It was midafternoon before the two men found a small
kalakku
bound for Kal
ḫ
u the following day. Jamin arranged passage for labor, and they agreed to meet at sunrise. They would seek another boat for the final leg of their journey to Nineveh from the capital city.

Jamin offered his family’s house to Jonah for the night. Jonah was grateful to accept, and the men backtracked across the city. Jamin pointed out the sights and explained some of the history of the ancient city. The massive temple and ziggurat on the promontory were dedicated to the principal Assyrian god, Ashur, he explained, as they climbed toward the city center. When they reached the top of the hill, he confirmed Jonah’s impression that the walled complex was a palace—actually more than one palace, constructed by various kings through the centuries. He pointed out the one built by the first King Adad-nirari over five hundred years earlier.

Jamin named each of the temples along the road that led away from the palace complex. The large temple on their right was dedicated to Anu, the ancient king of the Sumerian gods, and the storm god, Adad. Across the road to their left was the temple of the sun god Shamash, and the moon god, Sin. A few paces more put them beside Nabu’s temple, which shared a courtyard with the larger shrine to Ishtar.

Jonah threw a glance at Ishtar’s temple, and the heat returned to his cheeks from his encounter with the
qadishtu
that morning. Jamin grew quiet, as well. The portico was vacant in the high heat of the afternoon. Jonah marveled at the plethora of idols in which this nation placed its trust. The message of repentance he held for Nineveh could have benefitted Aššûr, as well. Maybe it would.

They crossed the plaza and turned up the boulevard leading to the western-gate road. Jamin led his guest back into the newer quarter. He halted before a neat, modest house.

Introductions between Jonah and his parents broke his mother’s glum mood. She was agog, and somewhat flustered, that a prophet of the Most High God was in her home and would spend the night. Her parents eagerly, but respectfully, plied Jonah with questions about events back in Israel. Few travelers from the Levant passed through Aššûr, and they were hungry for news and gossip.