In the land of Nineveh, there lived a boy named Akhdaru, who was apprenticed to a butcher. His younger brother, Qatanu, learned the craft of jewelry-making. A famine struck their land around the time the boys grew into manhood, and they noticed the wealthier merchants abandoning their homeland. Qatanu the jeweler departed from Nineveh to seek his fortune in the city of Babylon.
The famine in Nineveh subsided and the land grew fertile again. But after three years, the drought relapsed, and Nineveh became even more barren than it had been before. In those days, few of the townspeople could even afford meat. Akhdaru the butcher saw his time had arrived to emigrate to the city of riches, Babylon. The butcher packed his knives and cages onto an oxcart and began the long journey southward, down the path his brother had followed years before.
The butcher imagined he would find his brother on his first day in Babylon, but the city was vast. During Akhdaru’s first week in Babylon, the butcher found the price of livestock higher than in Nineveh. He asked the shepherds he met if they knew of any jeweler with a similar face to his own. One fowler knew of a Ninevite named Qatanu who had been inducted into the imperial court of the King of Babylon, Nebuchadnezzar. The next morning, the butcher Akhdaru approached the palace gate to ask of this jeweler’s whereabouts.
The palace guard asked what business this subject had with a courtier. Said the butcher, “The resident jeweler in the court of King Nebuchadnezzar is a man named Qatanu. I am his brother. I seek to inform him of my arrival in the city of Babylon.”
“I see the resemblance,” the guard replied, “but the palace guard may not admit just anyone into the royal court. King Nebuchadnezzar—may the world’s four corners submit to him always—has decreed that all subjects seeking audience with the court pay the palace an admittance tax.”
“I have no reason to seek audience with the King, may he reign forever; I only seek the court jeweler.”
“This subject uses an unusual expression to bless the King,” the guard said. “In Babylon, we say ‘King Nebuchadnezzar, may the world’s four corners submit to him always.’ The payment required to enter the court is one golden talent.” The butcher confessed his recent travels had been costly, and he withdrew.
Akhdaru established his butchery near the central Babylon marketplace to a difficult beginning. He was forced to slaughter the ox who hauled for him his whole business to Babylon. In accord with his suspicions, customers grumbled at this meat’s toughness. With time, however, profit found him. The butcher set aside the savings from his business until, one afternoon, he closed his butchery early and took his shekels to the money changer, departing with a single golden talent.
The butcher brought his one golden talent before the guard. “I seek Qatanu the jeweler.”
The guard gave the butcher directions to the jeweler’s office then stepped aside for the butcher to pass. The palace interior was beautifully adorned, with a perfectly sized maroon carpet spanning wall-to-wall and solid gold statuary peering down from the halls. When the butcher found the indicated office, his brother was recommending amulets to a courtier dressed in dyed silks.
Akhdaru waited until the courtier departed and Qatanu approached from behind his workbench. They sat together at a divan in the office vestibule. Qatanu asked Akhdaru many questions about Nineveh and how Akhdaru had come to be in Babylon.
Akhdaru explained he would have come to see his brother sooner, but he could not afford the one golden talent admittance tax. “Ah, one golden talent, yes, but we cannot admit just anyone to roam about the courts of King Nebuchadnezzar (may the world’s four corners submit to him always),” explained Qatanu.
Qatanu told the story of how a stoning execution left the position of court jeweler vacant. The King’s vicegerent had announced a contest then to determine the finest jeweler in Babylon. The winner would be granted the position of new court jeweler. The competition had been fierce, but Qatanu never doubted his ability. By inventiveness and hard work, Qatanu’s golden ouroboros ring won the King’s favor. Nebuchadnezzar’s reward had been the offer of a permanent position in the court, which Qatanu the jeweler had accepted.
Tomorrow, the vicegerent would pick up an amulet for his best concubine. A little work on this amulet remained, and the concentration required to finish it demanded adequate rest. Qatanu invited Akhdaru to come see the courts again when he could, and escorted Akhdaru out of his office until next time.
“By the way,” Qatanu remarked before shutting his door, “King Nebuchadnezzar (may the world’s four corners submit to him always) celebrates the fortieth anniversary of his coronation during the new moon after next. Subjects who offer coronation anniversary donations will be acknowledged at the anniversary festival’s opening song.”
Two years later, Akhdaru the butcher attended a burial for the father of one of his customers, a girl named Ishtara. While walking in the burial lands, one of the smaller cairns caught Akhdaru’s attention. The inscription read, “Nesu the miller was a wicked man.”
The following day, Akhdaru returned to the moneychanger and departed with one golden talent. At the palace gate, the guard asked him, “Does a subject seek to enter the palace empty-handed?”
“Is it not decreed that subjects pay the palace guard one golden talent as the admittance tax?” Akhdaru said.
“It is,” the guard said.
“I have paid the palace guard one golden talent, yet I have not been admitted,” Akhdaru said.
“Is it not also decreed,” the guard said, “that subjects offer the King’s court an admittance gift?”
“What sort of an admittance gift?”
“Subjects may not enter the palace grounds unless an admittance tax is paid and an admittance gift offered.”
“I am a butcher,” said the butcher. “Would a gift of raw flesh be accepted?”
“Such a gift would doubtless be accepted,” said the guard, “assuming its quality befits the table of the King of the world’s four corners.”
The butcher requested the return of his golden talent, and the guard granted this request, given that the butcher’s entrance onto the palace grounds had not yet occurred. A cured boar slaughtered in winter hung on meathooks for carving next week. The butcher loaded the entire carcass onto his wooden cart and pushed it to the palace gate.
Akhdaru gave his one golden talent to the guard again, saying, “I offer to the King, may the world’s four corners submit to him always, an admittance gift of the salted boar lying on this wooden cart.”
The guard opened the gate for Akhdaru. “The kitchen is through the palace rear entrance. Gifts of meat may be delivered there.”
After delivering his boar, Akhdaru ascended to his brother’s office.
“Do you, Qatanu, remember our mother’s telling us of our ancestor Nesu?”
“Yes, I remember, brother,” Qatanu said.
“Is it not true that Nesu was a miller by profession?”
“That is true; Nesu was a miller.”
“I do not believe our ancestor Nesu is buried in Nineveh.”
“You are correct.”
“I found a cairn in the Babylonian burial lands inscribed with his name.”
“Yes, that is where our great grandfather is buried.”
“You knew already the location of our ancestor Nesu’s burial cairn?”
“Our great grandfather Nesu is buried in the Babylonian burial lands, as are both of his wives and his daughter, who was our grandmother’s half-sister.”
“I did not know that.”
“Other ancestors of ours rest in the Babylonian burial lands as well.”
“Qatanu, it is written on the cairn that Nesu the miller was a wicked man.”
“Yes, he was quite wicked.”
“He is our ancestor. Do you, his descendent, declare him wicked?”
“He did many wicked deeds, Akhdaru.”
“What wicked deeds?”
“He murdered a guard of the palace.”
“A crime, certainly. But is it not a violation of virtue to dishonor one’s ancestors by declaring them wicked?”
“Is it not a violation of law to murder a guard of the palace?”
“I am only now learning from you that he did such a thing as murder a palace guard.”
“Is that why you have come to see me, brother? Because you learned that Nesu the wicked miller, our ancestor, is buried in the Babylonian burial lands?”
“We have not seen one another in two years. The last time I came to see you, your duties kept you from seeing me for very long.”
“Ah yes, I remember that evening. I was preparing an amulet for a concubine of the vicegerent. He reported back to me that she expressed pleasure in the result.”
“I would enjoy your company if you came to see my butchery,” said Akhdaru. “My butchery can be found at the south end of the central marketplace. Coming to see you has become more costly for me. It is required now for subjects to offer an admittance gift for the King as well as one golden talent admittance tax.”
“Would you have it otherwise?” Qatanu said, “In these days, when treason pervades the hearts of kingdom subjects, King Nebuchadnezzar—may the world’s four corners submit to him always—must ensure all who enter his palace grounds have demonstrated their loyalty to Babylon.”
“A boar I had prepared for sale in my butchery, I delivered today to your… to the King’s kitchen cooks.”
“I feel certain the King will find your offering wholly acceptable when it has been prepared for his table.”
A messenger appeared in Qatanu’s doorway. “Jeweler,” the messenger called, “The signet ring of the vicegerent has cracked.”
Qatanu gestured for them both to depart his office. “I have urgent business to which I must attend,” Qatanu said. “Thank you for coming to see me, Akhdaru.” Qatanu followed the messenger, but he turned back around and faced his brother, a halting hand on the messenger’s shoulder.
“As I am sure you have noted,” Qatanu said, “The daughter of King Nebuchadnezzar, may the world’s four corners submit to him always, is to be married in eleven days. Since all subjects of Babylon will be enlivened by this joyous occasion, the King seeks donations of gold for the wedding festival from his subjects. Such donations will be used to pay for banquet victuals of the most noble sort.”
“I am a poor butcher, and my shekels are few,” Akhdaru said. “Paying the palace admittance tax to enter your office has been so costly for me that my savings are depleted today.”
“That is unfortunate to learn,” said Qatanu. “If, however, you decide otherwise, you may offer your donation to the guard as you depart the palace. Subjects may offer wedding donations until the day before the wedding festival.”
Five more years passed without these two brothers seeing one another.
Two women entered Akhdaru’s butchery on an autumn morning. The younger of them, Ishtara, showed an agitation Akhdaru had not seen since her father’s death. But never before had he seen her with this older woman, whose face looked familiar, although she certainly was not a regular customer. “Akhdaru, Akhdaru!” Ishtara said, “This woman claims she is your aunt. She has news which she must share with you!” Akhdaru recognized her now. He had seen the older woman as a small boy, when her hair had been black and her skin nearly translucent. Now her hair was gray and her skin weathered.
“Your mother has died,” his aunt told him.
“Who buried her?” Akhdaru asked.
“Urshu, your brother still in Nineveh, buried her.”
Akhdaru closed his butchery. He took his shekels to the moneychanger and departed with one golden talent. He entered his smokehouse and loaded a skinned goat onto his wooden cart, which he wheeled to the palace. The butcher gave one golden talent to the guard. The guard ordered the butcher to remain at the gate while he offered the butcher’s admittance gift to the King’s kitchen. The guard returned the empty wooden cart to Akhdaru.
“Has my admittance gift been accepted?” Akhdaru said.
“Yes,” the guard said, “your admittance gift was accepted.”
“May I enter?”
“Babylon is at war with Persia. The King—may the world’s four corners submit to him always—admits no subjects to the palace during emergencies except those whose loyalty to Babylon is certain,” the guard said.
“But have I not already offered an admittance gift to the King’s kitchen? And did you not just acknowledge that my admittance gift has been accepted?”
“The King no longer considers admittance gift offerings adequate to ascertain the loyalty of subjects seeking audience.”
“But have I not already paid the admittance tax of one golden talent?”
“Would a subject like to request the return of his golden talent?” said the guard.
“No,” said Akhdaru, “I seek audience with my brother, Qatanu the court jeweler.”
“The king’s court receives no subjects during seasons of emergency,” the guard said.
“When may the palace court receive subjects again?” Akhdaru asked.
“When Persia has been defeated,” the guard said, “the emergency will have passed.”
Akhdaru thought for a moment. “Might a message be delivered to the office of the court jeweler?”
“I am not messenger; I am a guard,” said the guard.
“Then I will remain before the palace gate until I am admitted to the palace to see my brother, or until he comes out to see me.”
At sunset, a second guard approached the gate. The guards spoke to one another and pointed at him. The day guard departed, and the night guard stood without speaking.
At dawn, the day guard returned.
“I will remain before the palace gate until I am admitted to see my brother,” Akhdaru said.
The guard only flicked his eyes.
In the afternoon, Akhdaru’s aunt approached the palace gate.
“Akhdaru,” she said to her nephew, “I return to Nineveh tomorrow.”
Akhdaru said, “I have planted myself before the palace gate where the King’s guard has forbade my admittance. I have vowed to remain until I am admitted to the palace. I must deliver to my brother the news of our mother’s death.”
The aunt walked to the guard and gestured loudly before him. The guard spoke a word, and the old woman blushed, glanced back at Akhdaru, then hurried in the opposite direction. Akhdaru saw her no more after that.
With each changing of the guard, Akhdaru announced his intentions again to remain at the palace gate until he was admitted to see his brother Qatanu the jeweler. The butcher grew so delirious with hunger that he imagined on the sixth evening that he saw his brother walking the palace grounds. Akhdaru called him, but there was no response from the figure. At noon on the seventh day, two additional guards approached the gate from the palace.
“Akhdaru the butcher,” one said.
“I am he,” Akhdaru said.
The second guard said, “Akhdaru the butcher is a Persian spy. He is to be placed under arrest for treason.”
They each grabbed for one of the butcher’s wrists. The second guard missed when Akhdaru pulled his arm away. With his free hand, Akhdaru grabbed his own thumb and pulled his other wrist from the first guard’s grip.
The butcher profession requires physical strength, but this butcher was weak from fasting at the gates with only a water flask on his hip from when he departed his butchery. The guards all drew their swords. The butcher ducked and lunged at the nearest one’s legs. That guard toppled. The butcher picked up the dropped sword. One slashed at the butcher’s face. The butcher hacked at a gap in the guard’s armor like he was cleaving a mutton joint. The guard who was on the ground arose to plunge a dagger into the butcher’s kidney. The butcher turned around and smashed his fist into the guard’s nose. The butcher hammered the guard’s face into the ground until his limp body twitched. The other two guards fled to the palace.
Akhdaru the butcher departed Babylon without returning to his butchery. He limped out of Babylon’s city gate, bleeding. He walked north, but away from the trail he had taken on his way into Babylon from Nineveh. The butcher continued walking north for many days, up mountains and across swamps, until he arrived at a cave, far from any village.
Alone, he hunted, but game was scarce, so he foraged. The butcher learned which roots, berries, and flowers were edible—which ones were sweet, which savory, and which bitter. Some could not be eaten raw but had excellent flavor when cooked. He memorized certain combinations of grasses, seeds and nuts whose taste brought precious enjoyment to his bitter solitude.
The man dwelt in his cave for ten years. At dawn one spring morning, he wandered far from his cave down into the valley of a dry riverbed. A caravan approached.
“What is your name?” the master of the caravan said.
“I am Azraqu.”
“Do you intend to rob me, Azraqu?” the caravan-master asked.
“No,” he said, “but a long time has passed since I have seen any man.”
The caravan-master produced mead and bread and the two men sat and conversed.
“Does the King of Babylon remain in good health?”
“Yes, he is well,” said the caravan-master.
“What of the war? Are the Persians defeated?”
The caravan-master stared at him. “Azraqu, Babylon fell to Persia ten years ago. The King of Babylon is Cyrus. He is the King of the world’s four corners.”
“What of King Nebuchadnezzar, may he… ehh… What has become of Nebuchadnezzar?”
This response elicited another stare. “Azraqu, the one called Nebuchadnezzar has had his thumbs excised and his hamstrings sundered. Cyrus has brought him captive back to Pasargadae where he is made to bark like a dog for crumbs.”
“What fate befell the court of Nebuchadnezzar?”
“I have heard nothing of what became of Nebuchadnezzar’s court. Only that Nebuchadnezzar now crawls on all fours and sleeps in a Persian cage.”
On a dewy morning, one week after the caravan passed, the man of the cave gathered sundry plants into a bundle. He walked south for many days, as sorrow stirred within him.
On the outskirts of Babylon, a sunburnt, slender man with a long, gray beard offered his services to an eating-house as a cook.
Azraqu introduced himself to the owner as a man from an obscure village in the Zagros mountains whose family had been murdered by a caravan of marauders.
Azraqu’s skill in the kitchen was fine indeed. Rumors of the excellent food to be had in the eating-house on the northern outskirts of the city of Babylon reached the ears of Cyrus. One day, the King himself arrived there to dine.
The King brought with him a company of men whom, by their dress, Azraqu assumed were his courtiers. Azraqu prepared the first cuts of muttons with salted mint, roasted quail stuffed with crushed pistachios, and dandelion green salads topped with sesame and barberry dressing. After the elaborate meal, Cyrus asked to meet the cook who had prepared such a memorable dinner. When the proprietor fetched his cook from the kitchen, the cook, seeing the fine robes and bejeweled fingers of the King, prostrated himself.
“Rise. What is your name?”
“I am Azraqu,” said the cook.
“Azraku, as a reward for the meal you prepared so wonderfully, I am ready to give you thirty golden talents. What say you to that?”
The cook looked sheepishly downwards.
“O great King,” he replied, “I am honored by your offer of thirty golden talents. However, I live simply now. I am old; I have no children. I no longer desire wealth.”
“Very well,” King Cyrus responded, “Have you any desires at all?”
“I do,” said the cook.
“State them.”
The cook took a breath. “Before the conquest of Babylon, in the courts of Nebuchadnezzar, there dwelt a certain jeweler. O great King, will you tell me if a jeweler from the courts of Nebuchadnezzar remains still a jeweler with a position now in your own court?”
The king’s countenance darkened into basalt.
“None from Nebuchadnezzar’s court remain alive. Those courtiers who dwelt in his palace compound were burnt to cinders in their offices.” The king relaxed his face then, as if curiosity were overtaking suspicion. “This jeweler— he was someone known to you?”
Azraqu responded, “I knew of him. But he did not know me.”
In the weeks after the remarkable visit of King Cyrus, Azraqu the cook invented a new dish. The meal consisted of a platter holding small portions of each food that had brought out to the King. The cook named his new dish “The Jeweler’s Platter,” and it became a fast favorite among the eating-house regulars.