CHAPTER NINE
It was late in the evening when a slouching figure slipped cautiously through a gateway overgrown with vines. The location was the back of a large dwelling tucked within the confines of Shushan proper. The building was occupied by one of the king’s ministers and his large family. He was from “outside,” as a true native of Shushan would term it, even though he had lived his whole life within the royal boundaries. His father before him had served in governmental capacity and had gained a fair amount of influence within the superstructure of the Persian hierarchy. Haman was distinguished amongst the societal circles as hailing from the descendents of Amalek. His family had been caught in the net of deportation that the Babylonians had spread, closed, and dragged across desert sands to serve in their burgeoning empire. Along with other nomadic peoples, his family was forcibly relocated. It had been a traumatic happening, but they were a resilient people and with the passing of several generations, had converted their misfortune into impressive benefit.
After waiting a considerable time in the shadows of the large doorway, the night visitor tapped quietly and withdrew into as much of the shadow that the structure and the laws of physics would permit. The only eyes which have seen his approach are yours and mine, and he is looking in our direction very suspiciously. I am being very still as I write so as not to attract his attention, and I suggest you do the same. He does not appear to be someone with whom either of us would like to have further interactions.
Hammedatha, Haman’s father, had found his way into semi-prominence in the scheme of things through the commonly accessible door of military service. He had demonstrated considerable shrewdness in his dealing with friends and enemies alike (and of course, converting some of the former into the latter in the process). In his later years he had found appointments in advisory capacities that afforded him a presence in the politic general of the Persian machine.
( Another round of tapping this time with a reluctant increase in force.)
Haman, his son, demonstrated very little of his father’s military aptitude but was of the species that actually thrived in the curious air of palace life. It was a stench or fragrance composed of the best and worst; dregs and cream mixed together. For the son of Hammedatha it was all cream. He had married his way into the outer circle, worked and bargained his way into the middle circle, and of late had partially purchased, partially been awarded a seat as a king’s advisor. These prestigious benches were predominantly symbolic until one reached the top 24. Here it was that all power resided. Of these the coveted position was that of Grand Vizier, the King’s most intimate advisor and trusted confidant.
Haman had no problem identifying his goals. He wanted that seat. There existed no tangible reason to think it to be within his grasp. But neither had he reason to think that it was not. Mix in an industrial strength portion of ambition, and it suddenly became the overwhelmingly obvious path.
There was the sound of interior latches sliding in their carriages and then a thin knife-edge of light cross-sectioned the night. There was a quick exchange in muffled tones and the night darkness resumed its sovereignty. (Its dangerous, but you and I must draw a little closer if we are going to hear this next part. I know because it’s my story.)
There is a long wait, and our dubious visitor is growing nervous as his shifting from one foot to another attests. Finally, the great door once again lets its light escape as a second figure slips over the threshold into the night, pulling the door quickly behind him.
“I told you never never to come here,” hissed a voice in undisguised alarm.
“I know my lord, I know, but you will want to know the tidings I bring and you will want to know them tonight!” There was a pause as the visitor waited for his cue.
“Well quickly then before someone sees you here” was the rasped answer.
“Its Bigthan, my liege, he wants you to know he has seen her……she insists on talking to you..”
“I told you that was impossible” snapped the host impatiently. “My name and presence can be associated neither with this matter, nor with any lice that do Bigthan’s biddings.” His voice was dangerously close to escaping the limits assigned to whispering.
“The time has already been set, HE will leave for the campaign in the west at the new moon; there will be some ‘problems’ in the second house of the women; you will be summoned as it will pertain to allegations of some financial darkness. She will arrange the rest, you will be completely irreproachable” the last was said with an inflection that gave the night creature his only chance at showing that Haman was not the only one who found this nocturnal visit loathsome.
“Absolutely not!” the would be Vizier would not be cajoled by the likes of Bigthan, especially through this ambassador that now contaminated the stoop of his back door.
“Fine, Bigthan said you would be thus, but to let you know that there is another of the ‘cut ones’ who would be interested in your decision…..good night to you.” With that he took leave of the shadows with none of the discretion he had demonstrated when arriving.
Haman cursed because he knew he would have to do this thing. Bigthan wanted him to know that Teresh, another of the chamberlains, was with him. Teresh had done many ‘favors’ for Haman and vice versa. It was a threat, at least indirectly. If things went awry, he could be implicated out of empty spite. Haman lived by an inner pace that always strove never to allow this very kind of situation to land on his plate. It was dangerous to not have complete control of a situation. But here it was.
He had learned not to waste time begrudging an undesirable situation; it was safer to get into it all the way at this point to make sure there was no incompetence. Bigthan and Teresh knew the slippery banks of the political stream, but it was the woman who could leave them all outside the executioner’s gate groping for their heads in the dust of Shushan. He went to his library and began writing an ambiguous note to Bigthan to let him know he would lend his hand. For Haman, ambiguity was a finely honed skill, almost a virtue.
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