The Witch of Babylon

Tomas smiled. “I’m from Mosul. Nahum spent most of his life in that area so I have a particular interest in him.”

“I see. A word first, then, about biblical interpretation. It’s basically all guesswork. Despite that, it’s grown into a small industry. I use the Masoretic text of the Hebrew Bible. That’s what the Christian Old Testament is based on. In addition to direct archaeological evidence, I cross-check with other accounts— Mesopotamian records, Roman and Greek historians—to verify interpretations.” Tomas nodded his assent.

“Let me give you some background. The first complete version of the Hebrew Bible wasn’t assembled until sometime around 560 B.C. in the years following the Babylonian exile. That’s a gap of at least three hundred years until the earliest text in existence today—the Qumran Dead Sea Scrolls. Fragments of Nahum appear in 4Q169 of the scrolls, so I’ve been fortunate to be able to use those too as a partial guide.”

We were in the hands of a master here, and he savored an audience. “Do you know what a muraqqa is?”

“It’s a Persian album, isn’t it?” I said. “Beautiful folios in continuous sheets made of patches of paper pasted together, decorated with images, calligraphy, and intricate borders.”

“Those are the ones,” Ward replied. “I like to think of the Bible that way. Old Testament stories were originally oral; conversion to script didn’t begin until the seventh century B.C., when literacy blossomed in Judah. Like a muraqqa, the Bible is a collection of pieces; over time, sections were removed, altered, or replaced by new ones. The original wording and meanings changed.” He laughed. “I’ve seen colleagues argue for years over the meaning of a couple of sentences.”

“In some cases, wasn’t it purposely changed?” Laurel asked.

Ward agreed. “Some of that was intentional. The Bible’s authors wanted to express a theological viewpoint, and events like the fall of Nineveh were written about to illustrate those values rather than to document history. The Christian Old Testament itself is full of editorial miscues. An eye for an eye, as an example—what do you generally think of when you hear that?”

“The punishment should fit the crime,” Ari said.

“Correct. But originally it meant no more punishment should be meted out than the crime warranted. Almost a reverse of the commonly accepted notion.”

“Like the old party joke,” I said. “You form a line and the first person whispers a sentence to his neighbor, and by the time you reach the end, the sentence totally changes.”

“You’ve got the idea. Here’s another one: Armageddon. What does that mean?”

“The end of the world?” Laurel threw in.

“No. It’s a real place, a Greek word referring to an actual location—Har Megadon, the mount and plain of Megiddo, where the final battle is supposed to take place. A more subtle shift in meaning, but it illustrates my point all the same. No story survives intact for more than a few generations. What’s old is new again. I often think that statement is an almost perfect reflection of reality.”

“You’re talking about the Mesopotamian myths,” I said.

“Exactly. Take the original tale of Cain and Abel. Have you ever wondered about its inconsistencies?”

“Can’t say I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about it.”

“We have Abel, the shepherd, and Cain, the farmer. Why was God so offended over Cain’s gift? Would it not be natural for Cain, a farmer, to offer the ‘fruit of the ground’? Why was that a poorer gift than Abel’s, the shepherd who gave the first of his flock?”

Tomas, not to be outdone by me, offered his opinion. “Sheep were more valuable because they were used for sacrifice?”

Ward drank some Perrier and stood up. He liked to gesture when he spoke, and sitting down obviously cramped his style. “You have to put the story in its social context,” he said. “Most of the Judean Hebrew people of that time were nomads, shepherds. Their natural territorial enemies were city dwellers. Cain is a farmer and therefore linked not with the nomadic life but with settled communities. Later in Genesis you’ll notice that, after his exile, Cain became the father of cities. He symbolized the cities that Genesis described as cesspits of sin—a notion, by the way, that carried through to modern times. ‘Nature’ is celebrated and cities are regarded as a necessary evil.”

Ward remained standing with his back against the patio table, forcing us to look up to him. “I’m taking a bit of artistic license there. Authors of the Hebrew Bible wanted to forge a great nation. They succeeded brilliantly. But that necessitated emphasizing the menace from their enemies—Canaanite and Assyrian city builders.”

“I think you’re taking a lot of liberties. It’s all open to interpretation. You can’t prove any of that.” Tomas seemed miffed by Ward’s claim. If he’d once studied for the priesthood, his faith in traditional teachings probably remained strong.

Ward gestured with his glass. I could hear the ice cubes tinkle as the water sloshed. “Genesis is a parable written by a nomadic people threatened by city-states. Read the earlier Mesopotamian version of Cain and Abel. It’s completely different. In it the two protagonists were a shepherd king and a farmer king. But the dispute was over a woman, not gifts to God. A much more believable reason for a fight.”

I knew Samuel had ascribed to this view. He believed myths were not made up but originated from real events, the flood tale being a perfect example. Before the advent of writing, information could only be passed down orally, and the raw information that was vital for future generations had to be expressed in the most dramatic way possible—through poetry. The rhymes and tempo of poetry made the stories easier to recall.

Ward broke into my thoughts. “Getting back to Nahum, when I began my study of his book, I asked a writer friend to review it for me. It’s not that well known; he’d never heard of it before. So he approached it with a completely fresh viewpoint. The first surprise was how much he loved it. He said it was poetic, utterly convincing. But it also confused him because the whole tone and thrust of the work changed significantly after the first chapter. That confirmed what I believe and what other scholars have argued.”

“What would that be?” I asked.

“The entire first chapter and the first two verses of the second chapter were written long after the original work and not by Nahum at all. Interestingly, the King James Bible supports this by beginning the second chapter at what is the Hebrew Bible’s Chapter 2:2.”

A few raindrops fell. The sky turned slate gray. A deluge threatened. We scrambled to get up and rushed into the kitchen. “I guess sitting outside wasn’t the best idea after all,” Ward said. “Let’s move upstairs to the library.”

Ward ushered us into the front room on the first floor. The rear wall of his library was stacked with books: tomes on art and New York photography; old volumes smelling of must, gilt Hebrew script on their spines; an entire shelf devoted to symbolism in religious art; the odd novel. I picked out The Great Gatsby and leafing through it saw that it was a signed first edition.

I took advantage of the break in the conversation to find the restroom on the second floor. It was furnished with a separate tub and shower, the shower head fastened to the ceiling to let the spray flow like a waterfall. An arty ceramic basin, electric tooth-cleaning gear a dentist would envy, hand-decorated Milano ceramic tile, wide pine plank floors, spotless white towels.

I glanced at the time and swore out loud when I realized I’d forgotten the appointment with Reznick, the criminal attorney. There’d simply been too much on my mind. I hastily put in a call to his office, but getting no answer, had to be satisfied leaving a voice mail.

As I turned to leave I glanced out the window. A silver Range Rover was parked directly across the street. Its tinted windows prevented me from seeing who was inside. My stomach dropped. I cranked open the window and could hear the motor running and smell the exhaust. I had to think of a way to check the vehicle out without disclosing the problem to Jacob Ward.

When I returned, I found him standing in front of the fireplace in full performance mode, expounding on some fine point of biblical lore.

“I think one of the guests for your next meeting might be about to arrive,” I said. “I hope we’re not taking too much of your time.”

He glanced at his watch. “If they’re here, they’re far too early; I’ve got over an hour yet. How do you know?”

“There’s an SUV idling outside your house.”

He walked over to the front window, peered out, then laughed. “It’s five-thirty. That’s my neighbor Lawrence