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Nebuchadnezzar II

Nebuchadnezzar II (reigned 605 – 562 BCE) was a king of the Neo-Babylonian Empire. His historical feats include the construction of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon and the conquest and destruction of Jerusalem and its temple. He is mentioned in several books of the Hebrew and Christian Bibles, most notably the Book of Daniel . . .

NEBUCHADNEZZAR AND BIBLICAL PROPHECY

Daniel chapter 2, verses 31–35 describes a dream in which Nebuchadnezzar saw “a great statue . . . The head of that statue was of fine gold, its chest and arms of silver, its middle and thighs of bronze, its legs of iron, its feet partly of iron and partly of clay. As [the king] looked on, a stone was cut out, not by human hands, and it struck the statue on its feet . . . Then the iron, the clay, the bronze, the silver, and the gold, were all broken in pieces . . . But the stone that struck the statue became a great mountain and filled the whole earth.” As interpreted by Daniel, the statue’s golden head represents Nebuchadnezzar’s own kingdom, and the other parts of the statue represent three other kingdoms that will come after it; the mountain that arises from the stone is a fifth and final kingdom that will rule over all the earth, forever. Although this fifth kingdom is generally understood to be the Kingdom of God, the identity of the fourth kingdom and the nature of the stone that will shatter it is a subject of heated debate among Christian eschatologists . . .

MODERN LEGACY

Nebuchadnezzar remains a popular figure in the UAS, particularly in the state of Iraq. The Iraqi city of Al Hillah, located near the ruins of ancient Babylon, has numerous Nebuchadnezzar-themed tourist attractions, including the Six Flags Hanging Garden Waterpark.

Nebuchadnezzar is also a favorite among aspiring politicians. A survey conducted by Riyadh Week in Review found that of the historical leaders to whom Arabian presidential candidates compared themselves, Nebuchadnezzar was second in popularity only to the holy warrior Salah al Din.

While the Republican Guardsman patted him down, Mustafa contemplated the Baath Labor Union motto, painted on the arch above the gate: ACT NOW, TALK LATER.

Words to live by. It occurred to him that he ought to be at least a little nervous, but the only thing that concerned him at the moment was keeping his balance. Shuffling through the cards in the van, he’d felt his vertigo starting, and the giddiness had intensified during the walk to the gate. Now, standing on the border of Saddam’s Republic, whatever apprehension he might have felt was swallowed by that same giddiness, leaving him unsteady on his feet but otherwise serene.

The first Guard finished his pat-down and a second stepped up to repeat the procedure. Mustafa’s pistol, wallet, Homeland Security ID, and cell phone had already been taken from him, along with Saddam’s package, and all of these were being carefully scrutinized as well. A Guard who appeared to be the leader of the gate detail recited Mustafa’s name and federal employee number into a walkie-talkie.

Several minutes passed. Mustafa looked up the drive towards Saddam’s mansion and saw a keeper walking a lion on a leash. The big cat stopped to sniff the tire of an armor-plated limousine that was parked at the turnaround. Then a bird flew by overhead and the lion took off after it, pulling its keeper along behind.

The front door of the mansion swung open and the ace of clubs emerged. Qusay, the “good” son: sober and self-controlled, far less likely than his brother to shame the family with a tabloid headline, and for that very reason more apt to be trusted with jobs requiring discretion. The consensus among Halal and Bureau agents was that Qusay had many more murders to his name than Uday did. This morning he did not appear to be in a good mood. Perhaps Mustafa’s arrival had interrupted his breakfast.

The leader of the gate detail handed Mustafa’s Homeland Security ID to Qusay. Qusay glanced cursorily at it, then said: “What is it you want here?”

“I would like to speak with your father about his recent online purchase.” Mustafa nodded at the package. “And about any other similar items he may have acquired.”

“I don’t know what items you are referring to, but a conversation with my father is impossible.”

“I understand your father is a busy man and not especially trusting of government agents. But if I may appeal to him directly . . .”

“You may not.”

“Then please tell your father for me that I am on a special assignment for the president, who will be grateful to anyone who assists me.”

Qusay didn’t blink. “And if my father isn’t interested in the president’s gratitude? What then?”

“Please,” Mustafa said. “I make no threats, only a respectful request for help. If your father says no, I’ll leave and trouble him no further.”

“Just like that, eh?”

“Hey.” Mustafa waved a hand at the land outside the gate. “It’s a free country.”

It was the kind of really big house that seemed designed to make you remark, repeatedly, on how really big it was. The ungodly nature of the excess, the awful tackiness of the furnishings and décor that also begged for comment—those were perhaps less deliberate.

Baath-affiliated artists had been drafted into the decorating effort. The mansion’s grand reception hall featured a painting of Saddam and his wife Sajida dressed as heads of state of some antique kingdom (Babylon, judging by the ziggurats in the background). That portrait wasn’t so bad actually, but another, which cast Saddam as a knight of jihad defending Jerusalem against Richard the Lionheart, struck Mustafa as a bit much. And a third painting, showing Saddam as the Spartan King Leonidas holding the line against Xerxes’ Persians at Thermopylae—that had to be either a gag or a loyalty test: Look at this without snickering and you may have a future as a citizen of the Republic.

“This way,” Qusay said. He led Mustafa through an archway into a hall lined with statues. More historical figures, each carved or cast with the same mustached face: Saddam as Hammurabi the Lawgiver; Saddam as Gilgamesh; Saddam as Shalmaneser, as Sargon, as Sennacherib; Saddam as Ramesses the Great . . .

The hall ended in a circular domed chamber with one last statue at its center. This ultimate king stood seven meters tall, and sunlight streaming through windows in the dome made the monarch’s head glister like gold. But when Mustafa, unable to resist, gingerly rapped a knuckle on one of the royal feet, what he discovered was neither gold nor a mix of iron and clay, but the hollow ring of tin.

“Wait here,” Qusay said, leaving Mustafa in Nebuchadnezzar’s shadow. “My father will join you shortly.”

As Qusay’s footsteps faded into the distance, Mustafa heard a low droning sound. Following it to another archway, he gazed into a side room where a boy sat playing with a fleet of toy trucks. The boy was European or possibly American and looked about five years old. There was something forlorn about the way he pushed the same dump truck back and forth, making listless vroom-vroom noises.

A woman who sat minding the boy looked up at Mustafa looking in. Mustafa nodded to her, then turned to see the real-life king of the Republic coming up behind him.

The prosecutor at one of his trials had described Saddam Hussein as “a village thug in city clothes.” He was a big brute of a man, tall and thick, like the monument he longed to become. He swam laps daily to keep himself in shape and dyed his hair and mustache to hide his age. Informants said he had back trouble and often limped when out of the public eye. But there was no sign of that now—as he approached Mustafa he kept his stride confident and even, channeling whatever agony this cost him into an air of affable menace, like a cunning old lion strolling out to see what had wandered into his den.