(continued from previous scroll)
The wind had shifted by morning. It carried the scent of damp reeds and silt from the riverbanks, mingled with the faint aroma of fresh bread being baked in clay ovens beneath the lower terraces. Babylon was quieter than usual, as if the city itself were waiting for something. On my way through the Court of Measures, I overheard a group of temple scribes debating the omen tablets from the night before—an unusual arrangement of liver markings in the sacrifice of a young goat. I paused only briefly, then pressed forward. Daniel would be waiting.
He was seated beneath the ivy-covered colonnade, as always, his back straight, his eyes already watching my approach. He greeted me with a subtle nod, then shifted slightly on the stone bench to make room.
“Today,” he said, “we must speak of pride.”
I unslung my tablet case and seated myself. “Whose pride, my lord?”
“Nebuchadnezzar’s,” he said quietly. “And mine.”
I paused, stylus in hand.
He folded his hands over his knees. “You asked me earlier if I ever feared. Today you will see how even kings tremble.”
He began slowly, as though drawing memories from a distant well.
“The king was at the height of his power. His palace gleamed, his gardens defied the desert, his court was feared across the lands. And yet—he dreamed again.”
I waited, stylus ready.
“A great tree,” he said, “reaching to the heavens. Its branches sheltered the beasts of the field. Its fruit fed all peoples. Birds made their nests in its boughs.”
He paused, eyes distant. “And then—an angel, a watcher, descended and cried out: ‘Cut down the tree. Strip its branches. Bind its stump with iron and bronze. Let him live with the beasts, eat grass like oxen, and be drenched with the dew of heaven. Let his mind be changed from that of a man, and let seven times pass over him.’”
I hesitated. “Did he see himself in the vision?”
“No,” Daniel said. “And I feared to tell him. But he demanded truth. So, I gave it.”
He turned to face me fully, and I felt the weight of his voice.
“The tree was him. His greatness had become his idol. His rule had become his boast. And the Most High, who gives kingdoms and removes them, had decreed his humbling.”
“What happened?”
Daniel drew a deep breath. “I warned him. I begged him to show mercy, to humble himself, to do justice. But a year passed. And he walked one evening on the roof of his palace and said, ‘Is this not Babylon the Great, which I have built by my mighty power for the glory of my majesty?’”
I felt a chill, though the air was warm.
“And in that moment,” Daniel continued, “a voice from heaven declared it: the kingdom is departed from you. He was driven from among men. His reason fled. He lived like a beast—nails like claws, hair like feathers, dew on his back each morning. He crawled on hands and knees beneath the tamarisk trees. No throne. No robe. No words.”
I could not write fast enough.
“How long?” I asked.
“Seven times,” Daniel said. “Seven times of silence and madness.”
“How did no one try to take his throne?”
“Who would dare?” he said. “Even mad, he was still Nebuchadnezzar. The fear of him lingered. The court said he was in seclusion. Only a few of us knew the truth.”
“And you waited?”
“I watched,” he said. “And I prayed. Because I believed the word would be fulfilled in mercy as well as judgment.”
Daniel’s eyes shimmered faintly in the morning light.
“Then one day, he looked to the sky. He did not speak—but his eyes cleared. And then, with a voice that shook the tamarisk grove, he said, ‘I bless the Most High. His dominion is everlasting. His kingdom endures from generation to generation.’”
“And he was restored?”
Daniel nodded. “His hair was shaved. His nails were cut. His robe was returned. His counselors stood astonished. His kingdom was restored—and the king who returned to his throne now praised the One who had taken it from him.”
I paused, then asked the question I had feared to speak: “Was he saved?”
Daniel looked long at me. “He praised the Most High. He testified to His justice. That is enough.”
A silence passed between us. The river breeze stirred the leaves. In the distance, the bells of the Esagila chimed the sixth hour.
At length, Daniel said softly, “Pride is not cast out by shame. Only by worship.”
I closed my tablet and bowed.