The Adviser

Why I should bother with an introduction I really dont know. What are you to me after all? blades of grass that flourish in a winters rain and wither in the hot sun of an Egyptian summer: a passing phenomenon each of you one of thousands, nay, millions of specks who are here today and gone tomorrow. Poof! As one of your saintly sages, Menachem Mendel of Kotsk, once said: This world is as valuable as a groan a krechs.

Yet to dispense altogether with an introduction would be, to say the least, disingenuous. A story needs a shaping hand, a narrator with tangible characteristics with whom the reader so help us can identify. Such is the force of convention, one I am loath to forego.

Of course, to define me is easier said than done. While hardly a secret, my identity is a subject that has burdened some of the most formidable minds throughout the centuries. On occasion, it has even puzzled me!

Its not simple. I am a master of guises, even deceptions, and am known by many names, most of them grossly unflattering, not to say insulting: The Serpent, the Other Side, the Master, the Enemy. Quite a range, if I say so myself. Of them all, the sobriquet if youll pardon my French I warm to the most is the Adviser. If I had an office and I dream of opening one, preferably in a district of law firms and accountants Id be more than pleased to affix a plaque to my door: Adviser by Royal Appointment.

Before you object, let me assure you that my credentials are impeccable. To start with, Ive been around a long time. Far more than any of you, thats for sure. I was born, if thats the right verb, in the twilight of the sixth day of creation. I emerged in the same breath as Abrahams ram, Balaams ass, Miriams well, Noahs rainbow, the mouth of the earth, the tongs that made the tongs, Moses rod and his burial place, the Shamir, and the Two Tablets of Stone. Oh yes, I am right up there in this exalted company. Except that, when it came to my turn, the powers-that-be could find no appropriate name. Imagine! Thus I entered what you know as history under the collective title of the "destroying spirits" hamazikin. Hundreds of years later, in the time of Solomon, I was known by another plural title that acknowledged my dual sexuality shida and shidot. If you dont believe me, look it up in verse eight of the second chapter of the Book of Ecclesiastes.

That was a glorious period for me and my namesake, Asmodeus, who actually had the temerity to change places with Solomon no less. Ever since then, my agents and I have scored many notable successes with rulers and, latterly, politicians. This you can verify in your daily newspapers, of which I am an ardent patron. But let us not be diverted, and return to my curriculum vitae.

The quick-witted among you will have spotted two things. Firstly, that I came into existence before the Sabbath: for however brief a spell, I breathed a world of spiritual restlessness, which is balm to my soul. It was a world of shadows and doubts, of endless activity and uncertainties. A veritable paradise! But like all paradises, of short duration. Alas!

Secondly, you would have noticed that, in contrast to all the aforementioned items that burst into life on that first Sabbath eve, I alone have lasted. The rainbow, the rams horn, the well, the mouth of the earth, and so forth, all did their duty and then left the scene, disappeared. Even the mouth of the ass and what a splendid mouth it was! lasted only until that incident with the angel in the deserts of Moab or Midian, and then oof! No more ass. There are rumours, that have gained the status of a tradition because they have been so persistent, that at the end of days (or should I say End of Days?), the rams horn will be blown, holy men will rediscover Moses rod and the broken Tablets of Stone, and the Shamir that dear little worm with its cycloptic eye will be used to build the third Temple. If that is not enough, the rainbow will reappear over Jerusalem, signalling a new covenant with the Holy One, Blessed be He, whose servant will enter Zions gate on Balaams revived ass. All this, I must stress, is mere speculation and, if youll pardon my scepticism, Ill believe it when I see it.

My qualifications as an adviser can be measured scientifically by recourse to recorded achievements. That is something no-one can take away from me: even an omnipotent God cannot change the past.

I wont bore you with a history of my deeds or misdeeds if you insist; its all the same to me. But mention of Balaams ass is not arbitrary; it brings me
directly to one of the early highlights of my long and distinguished career.

This happened about 3,500 years ago in Egypt in the 19th dynasty of the so-called Middle Kingdom. (These figures and rubrics are just another means by which human vanity disguises its finitude.) The Pharoah who reigned at that time was a nasty piece of work, even for someone considered semi-divine. Like many tyrants, this Pharoah thought of himself as something of an intellectual. Why this is so I am not sure. Perhaps it was something I said...

Flesh and blood is so full of contradictions! What is clear and obvious to one age is the reverse in another. In one epoch, knowledge leads to power, in another, power leads to knowledge. In the time of this Pharoah, the second equation was definitely in the ascendant. By being powerful you perforce proved your innate intelligence. The best evidence of this was the number of migrant workers, or slaves you had at your disposal. It was a required status symbol: a king without slaves is no king. An underling in a loin cloth, be it a man or a woman, gives a ruler the sense of complete dominance over the soul of another individual. These are not just subjects, who, theoretically at least, have constitutional rights and an ability to rise up against your rule. The slave is no more than an object to be used and exploited as a ruler sees fit. You have no idea how this power can go to somebodys head.

It happens that, at the time of which I am speaking, Egypt was bursting with Israelites. Hundreds and thousands of them. How they bred so rapidly from an initial stock of seventy souls is beyond even my powers of imagination. But their number was not the only problem. They were also complainers. In this area, I admit to having helped them. Complain, I urged: about your wages (they were low and getting lower), your work conditions (just as dreadful as I could arrange), and prospects for the future (almost nil).

Pharoah was beside himself. He needed a work force for his grandiose building plans. But how could he restrain this talented, critical, ebullient population of Israelites? I, naturally, pressed the case for both sides, which only infuriated dear old P the more.

There is no pain as acute as a royal pain. The royal pain is not just a personal problem, it is one suffered for and by the whole nation. Being an intellectual, however, Pharoah did have other resources available, and having failed to come to a decision about the practical matters on his doorstep, he fled his throne room for the cool of the royal library, hoping to find there a solution to his predicament.

The library, which was located near his palace in Thebes, was extraordinarily well-endowed. Some of its volumes dated back to the days of creation. There were original copies of "The Wars of the Kings," "The Book of Creation," "The Book of the Dead," "The Encyclopaedia of Resurrection," "The Book of the Wars of Waspi and Sufa." There were also countless volumes of early theology, that few, if any, read. The only purely fictional work was "The History of the Royal Peerage," which purported to give a historically accurate description of the divine origin of Egypts king and, for good measure, the royalties of surrounding dynasties mainly for the sake of protocol. As I say, complete fiction.

Pharoah glanced around his massive library and grimaced. It would take ages for a scholar to find his way around all this information. How much more so for an amateur like himself. Though it grieved him to be so dependant, Pharoah approached the chief royal librarian, the venerable Sul-i-Segorb.

The Chief Royal Librarian was as old as the Mountains of Seir and the Hills of Edom, and just as obstinate. Hair ran from his chin as though from the deckle edge of uncut parchment. His eyes were narrow, almost closed, from a life-time of reading fine lettering. He greeted the king in an ancient dialect of Upper Egypt, which upset Pharoah because he thought he was being made fun of. That is intolerable when youre a king, and semi-divine to boot. In point of fact, the myopic Segorb merely mistook Pharoah for his predecessor on the throne. That was a measure of how often members of royalty visited this store-house of universal wisdom.

Pharoah was about to put an end to the librarians impudence by a singular gesture to one of his guards, when the old man croaked one word which would change the complexion of things considerably.

"Advisers," he said.

The king stopped in his regal tracks. "Of course," he responded, wanting to show how quick off-the-mark a royal fellow could be. Then, pondering a while, he added gravely: "The question is which advisers?"

The old man paused as if hed come to a dead-end in one corner of his labyrinthine mind. There was silence in the library, disturbed only by some royal flies mooning in the dark passageways, and the buzzing of bees between parchments and stelae. In the distance, the waters of the Nile lapped lazily in the summer sun, throwing golden reflections on to the brown and muddy shores. Pharoah ordered one of his servants to wave the fluted fan nearer to him. Then he strained his ears very carefully as the old librarian pronounced the names of three potential advisers.

Pharoah needed no more prompting. Messengers were dispatched immediately to the lands of Moab, Uz and Midian, with word to bring back their most illustrious residents.

Of course, real intellectuals need something more than monetary payment to lure them from their present place of position and honour. Often, the promise of women will do it. But not in the case of Jethro, Job and Balaam, the three gentlemen in question. Two of the three were married to exceptionally fine women, while Balaam could be made happy with the rear end of an ass. The cur! The scoundrel!

Job was a gentleman-farmer rich, handsome and straight as a die. The English painter, William Blake, hardly caught more than one edge of his befuddled persona. Job was in livestock, real estate, investment. He had a way with money and, at this time, with God too. He was a practical intellectual; not the modern kind, but a man rooted in nature, in the sciences of his day astronomy, astrology, veterinary medicine. He had no doubts about Gods justice and mercy, not then at least. He thought he could make the whole world ripe for righteousness by offering its inhabitants an example of clean, healthy living, and by showing them how to raise a family, to tend livestock, and still have time to contemplate the mysteries of existence. In this way he resembled Jethro.

Solid citizen through-and-through, complete with a devoted and beautiful wife and seven daughters, Jethro was not only a priest-king in his own right, he was the head of the Midian College of Comparative Theology, the like of which existed nowhere else in the ancient world. Hed tasted every religion, knew 70 languages and was an initiate in primitive mysticism. In the darkness of the desert nights he brooded the possibilities afforded by the Abrahamite sect that there was one, unique, comprehensive, all-knowing god who ruled the world. But he hadnt reached that conclusion when I first knew him.

Balaam was a different type altogether. He would have sold his mother if it would have earned him more wealth and honour. It was thus a pity that he was not entirely certain as to his mothers exact identity. He was equipped with a startling intellect; one of the best Ive ever had the pleasure to pervert. His mind was always on some new machination, fraught with menace. He usually managed to see the dark side of things, which made us good company. Id only have to whisper in his ear the merest hint of some nasty caprice, and he would be seeking ways of implementing it. He was an inventor, a magician, and a salesman: a true charlatan. Apart from his strange obsession with animals, I dont mind telling you, I miss him.

Pharoah knew the reputation of all these gentlemen and acted accordingly. "I invite you personally to the royal library at Thebes, the oldest in the world, and crave your advice on additions to its volumes." Thus the brief content of the letters. The library was, even then, legendary, and an invitation to visit it was not to be scoffed at. Within days of receiving the personally signed parchment, all three scholars were on their way across deserts and mountains to rendezvous in the Egyptian capital.

Pharoah spared no expense for his guests. Naked slave girls fetched them food and drink, and offered them massages, baths, oils and perfumes. The girls golden and brown bodies shone in the bright sun of Egypt, highlighting the movement of their hips, their pointed nipples and naked shoulders. Neither were their painted eyes devoid of appeal, even suggestiveness. After the arduous journeys, a little comfort and relaxation might have seemed in order.

Yet the guests remained impervious to the young womens obvious charms. Certainly this might have been expected of Job and Jethro. But Balaam? He didnt care a fig for propriety, and his reputation for debauchery was known to all. So why the restraint? I must admit that even I was fooled for a while. Until I discovered his penchant for the backside of his ass...

Having rested and been attended to, all three guests were invited to share a banquet with their host. Crocodile and squib, lizard and quail, washed down with wine from Pharoahs own cellars. This part of Pharoahs ploy worked better than the seduction by slave girls. Pharoah was well pleased to see that the sumptuous meal had put his honoured guests into a congenial and convivial mood. The talk around the banqueting table ranged between theology and history, fate and freedom. It was conducted in the most common dialect of demotic Egyptian, so as not to insult or offend in any way the semi-divine host.

After the performance of dancing youth, to the accompaniment of the royal orchestra, Pharoah dismissed all his servants and leaned forward on his throne-like chair:

"Now I have a riddle," he said.

His guests were all ears.

"In a certain country there came a tribe of strangers with their own ways, traditions, history, and gods or, in this instance, one tribal god. At first they lived quietly on their own, in a place specially set aside for them. They reproduced so quickly, however, and became so numerous that they were forced to move to other parts of the country. The original inhabitants of the country became alarmed. The strangers were taking their jobs and benefitting from the land. At the same time they were refusing to abandon their old ways, their style of worship and rituals. If they continued in this way it was obvious that they would soon take over the whole country. The king therefore issued an edict to enslave the strangers. But even this did not prevent them from reproducing at an alarming rate.

"What would the king do? He needed the skills of these strangers, but their demographic proclivity was a threat to his very existence."

Pharoah stopped, as though in the middle of his narrative, and looked around the banqueting table. His half-drunk guests nodded understandingly. He lifted his arms and gave a signal, and at the edge of the hall guards appeared, rattling their spears and shields. A heavy, oppressive air descended on the huge hall. Flames flickered in their holders, suspended from the stone walls, casting shadows across the tall, rounded stone columns.

Job arose. His long purple robes and magnificent gait lent him an aristocratic look. But his face, initially so rosy and beaming, had now turned ashen. Even his hair seemed to have silvered. "Im sorry to report to your majesty, but I do not feel well. Perhaps it was the long journey, or the unusually rich food. Allow me to sleep on the problem and in the morning I shall give it all the attention it deserves."

"Guards!" screamed Pharoah, showing the first signs of irritability. The king gripped his royal staff and banged it twice on the stone floor. Job froze on the spot. "Escort our honourable guest to his chambers," he commanded. And then, in a slightly softer tone, his majesty added: "I do hope you have a pleasant sleep."

It was Jethros turn. The sparkle in his pale, bright eyes had also lost its sheen. He cursed himself for having quaffed so much wine. When he stood up from his chair he found himself fighting to find suitable words. "Your conundrum is indeed sagacious," he began, but quickly realized that in his semi-stupor he was probably using a higher vocabulary than was appropriate. So he tried another tack. "I wonder if I could take advantage of your magnificent library, in order to seek there an answer to your profound riddle. I dont know how long it would take but..."

"Three days!" said Pharoah, now almost shouting.

Jethro stared back at the face of his host, surprised at the sharpness of the response. In Pharoahs visage he read surprise, too, but of a different type. It expressed amazement, even contempt, that solutions to the practical world could be found in the written word. And Pharoah, as usual, was right.

In exasperation the ruler turned to his third guest, Balaam, who was already on his feet, like an aged boxer manoeuvering into a position where his thrust could do most harm. He spoke quickly, crisply, authoritatively, as though the wine which had slurred the other two guests had merely raised his pulse. "Id say even without referring to the learned volumes in your most wondrous library that the only long-term solution for such an alien group is total assimilation, even if it is enforced from outside."

"But if that failed?" said Pharoah. "I told you that their beliefs deny them the possibility of assimilation on any level."

Balaam stretched to his full height and banged his magic rod on the stone floor. "Then execute them!" he cried. "They have defied the king. They constitute a danger to the body-politic of the country. They can never be trusted."

Oh, the look of joy on Pharoahs face! How I relish that moment. The blood returned to his skin and his royal staff quivered with excitement.

"Would you execute women and children?" he asked eagerly.

"Children, certainly," said the magician of Moab. "The women I would marry off to the men of the host country. This way the host country retains the strangers skills without the burden of the threat to its political stability."

While I had reason to rejoice, Jethro was crestfallen as he walked away from the banqueting hall and towards the library.

"I should never have agreed to this postponement," he berated himself. "It was a sign of weakness, uncertainty, which our colleague Balaam was able to turn to his advantage. Why did I answer this madmans invitation?"

But once we have reached this sort of impasse it is already too late. As I said beforehand, no-one can alter the past.

Between the precise columns of the library, Jethro sought out Sul-i-Segorb. The Chief Librarian led him to the section of the oldest writings. The two scholars walked down along rows of parchments and stelae, their nostrils sensitive to the different sections: Ugaritic, Sumerian, Sanskrit, primitive Chinese. The
librarian kept excusing himself because of his failing eyesight but the man following him was so immersed in his own thoughts as to be oblivious to the
librarians mumblings. "If he can kill women and children," the guest was thinking to himself, "hed have no qualms about killing the high priest of a friendly, neighbouring state."

Jethro formulated a question to the half-blind librarian, but before he had a chance to ask it, Sul-i-Segorb had stopped in his tracks, signalling that they had reached their destination. Behind the final pillar of the last row Jethro was surprised by a large figure, inspecting one of the manuscripts. In the gloom of this end of the library the standing, youthful figure seemed to glow with a peculiar light of his own. When he saw the two older men approaching, he pushed the manuscript he was reading into a small stone crevice. Sul-i-Segorb turned his white-haired head: "Moses, son of the Pharoah. Jethro, high priest of Midian."

The two men regarded each other with something approaching awe. Moses eyes were piercing, overpowering; Jethros expressed depth and kindness.

"You must flee," counselled Moses.

Jethros face filled with the anguish of one whose mind is being read by a perfect stranger.

"If you want to leave here alive, go," repeated Moses.

Jethro found his voice again. "But Im an invited guest. Midian and Egypt have official relations, trade agreements, historic ties."

The young princes eyes gave way to mocking irony. "You wouldnt be the first honoured guest to fall into the Nile, next to the Pharoahs crocodile farm. The servants call it the Special Guest Breakfast."

Jethro smiled. "I thank you for your concern."

Thus it was in the middle of the night, and against my advice, that the third guest fled for his life, with only the full moon and his wild thoughts as companions. Would he really have fallen victim to Ps crocodiles? He knew that it didnt pay to be naive in politics, but werent there limits, even to Pharoahs awesome powers? And what of this man Moses? What a strange figure he cut. Other princes practiced physical sports all day long. But this prince spent his free hours in the royal library. It was not that he was not the physical kind. Unlike many Egyptians he was tall and muscular. Neither was his search pedantic. His luminous face radiated light like one whose whole being was filled with the deep wisdom of the spirit. Jethro could read signs, and there was something totally separate and different in this Moses. Could it be that he did not really belong to the court, or even in Egypt? Had he been placed there unwillingly? Such thoughts stalked Jethro across the nights and days through mountain passes and across deserts till he reached his beloved Midian. Something told him this was not the last time he would meet Moses.

This meeting did not only cause Jethro palpitations. For me, too, it was a total disaster. I have to admit it. Im sometimes so caught up in what comes naturally to me that I neglect the really significant events that are taking place behind my back, or even in front of my face.

So it was here, and for a simple, elementary reason: I was fooled into believing that all transactions that take place in the shadows, especially at twilight or in obscure passages, belong to my sphere of influence. But good things happen in the dark, too!

Pharoah didnt take kindly to the fact that he had just lost one of his potential advisers. He screamed till his face was royal blue. He wailed like a drunk who has just witnessed a pitcher of his best wine shattered on the stone floor. Everyone cries according to their private code of preferences.

But with P you could never be sure. They could have been simply crocodile tears (I had to get that in somewhere!). He called for his soldiers but, no sooner had he sent them on the chase, than he recalled them. On the one hand he wanted to demonstrate that no-one crossed Pharoah. On the other hand he did not want to appear overly disturbed by this Midianite theologian. Better to bide his time; there would be other occasions to deal with this upstart priest. There was no point in spoiling good relations with Midian because their spiritual spokesman couldnt or didnt want to solve his riddle! He might indeed use the incident in the future as a pretext for invading the small, transjordan kingdom. He would see to it immediately that his scribes would record this in his daily memoranda.

Moreover, two other advisers were still at hand. Job, it is true, had not been seen since having been taken ill over supper. But his silence could definitely be interpreted as consent. If he had really objected, either in part or whole, he could have responded already through one of the attendants Pharoah had posted at the door of his chambers. This is what I whispered to the kings wise men, and they in turn relayed it to the king.

Then there was Balaam and he had already set the tone for what the king wished to hear. His unequivocal response kill the children, and marry off the womenfolk moved Pharoah in a way that no other words could. His words expressed precisely Pharoahs sentiments; except that, as king, it was not etiquette to come out and say such things, or not in so many words at least. For this reason writers, or literati, are employed by politicians and all others who need to convince the general public that what they are doing is for the general good, and merely need the right words to make it clear and acceptable. Thus, in Balaam, Pharoah found his mouthpiece. And what a splendid mouthpiece it was!

The world makes a terrible mistake when it thinks that the powerful and the wicked arent concerned about the impression they make on others. They most definitely are! Do you know of one king, dictator, or thug who didnt try to
legalize what he was doing? So my intuition about opening an office among lawyers was not without foundation. Questio id juris. The law thrives on precedents.

Balaam was as bad as any lawyer I have known. Besides his nefarious activities as a magician, he was also a money-changer. He had to be. He earned fees in so many different currencies that he was obliged to become an expert in exchange rates. Everything for him was money. Thats why he made the perfect adviser. Money for advice; one of the oldest games in the world. But one at which very few people are good enough to offer their services for monetary recompense. My advice to advisers is simply this: no pay, no say. Only I have the privilege of working for free. But with me its a little different: I receive such satisfaction from my work as to make the money aspect superfluous. Then again, if I had the gelt what would I do with it? Spend it in the High Street? But I stray from my tale.

Balaams judicious words found their place under Pharoahs name in the official announcement sent to the Israelite community. The edict took its toll. Pharoahs soldiers were kept extra busy. All leave was cancelled. No mercy was given. Houses ran with blood and the cries of male Hebrew babies. Music to my ears! Often there was more than one baby in the house. This only increased the fervour of the killers.

Dont get me wrong. They werent born killers. Who is? It takes time and practice. At first indeed, many of the soldiers and police objected. Some wags thought it was a ruse to raise their fees. But surprisingly it wasnt. So the top echelons passed a law: anyone recently married, or just plain chicken, would be exempt provided they filled out the appropriate form and pressed their illiterate thumbs into damp clay as a signature.

Those brave souls who remained, and there were a good number of them, received a chit from the palace sanctioning their role as mass slaughterers. Thus the killings began. But after three hot weeks, the Egyptians themselves began to complain that blood was appearing in the River Nile, and that when they went to fetch their well water, they drew up buckets of blood instead. So, reluctantly, Pharoah ordered the orgy to cease, alas! The Egyptians proved to be as strong-willed as their national symbol, the lamb. They were a superstitious lot, too, and had doubts about killing so many people in cold blood. What can you do when even the wicked wont pursue their plans to the end?

I, of course, knew that nothing good could come of this cowardly withdrawal. And so it proved. To compensate for finishing the slaughter prematurely, Pharoah celebrated his next birthday by announcing severer conditions for his Israelite slaves. This, in turn, led to a mass revolt by the slaves, led by Ps half-brother Moses, who justified the impious act with all sorts of theological mumbo-jumbo that hed picked up in the royal library. The revolt climaxed, if thats what you can call it, by a sneaky break-out in the dead of night, accompanied by a vicious attack on all native first-born males.

While I admired the poetry of it, I couldnt but help sympathize with old P, who lost not only his own son, but also the first-born of all his sheep, cattle, camels and donkeys. Moreover, this break-out was merely a hint of things to come. But more of this later.

I can already see that some of you are objecting. Whose side am I really on, you ask. On the one hand I upbraid the Israelites, on the other the Egyptians. Well, I admire your perception, but I see you still havent grasped the nature of the one with whom you are dealing. My whole task in this the lowest and worst of all worlds is to make sure that wherever there is nasty work to do I am, theoretically at least, on call to do it. With one rider, again reflecting my claim as an adviser: I am also a specialist, as you may have realized.

I dont go around picking on Poles, Lithuanians, Eskimos or Red Indians. This I leave to my colleagues. I am a strictly one-people phenomenon. And my people are the Jews. Others of my ilk have worked with the Assyrians, the Canaanites, the Perezites, the Sumerians, the Chinese, the Romans, the Greeks, the Huns, the Picts and the Scots.

Some of them did so well that the people they were assigned to were either rendered ineffectual or disappeared completely from the stage of history. So what did they gain? Eternal unemployment. This is an achievement? My lot the Jews never disappear! Thats a promise they claim to have received from God. But I play my part, too, as the Egyptian episode demonstrates. Of course I wanted to punish them, do them harm. Thats why I was created. But why confine their genius to one point in time or place? My help in their leaving Egypt meant that they no longer troubled only the Egyptians. Their exodus was also my exodus, what I learnt there I was able to apply wherever the Jews went. And where didnt they go? If you ask me some of them are probably on the moon. Really, I cant imagine what Id do without them. Theyre my lifes blood, my soul partner. Whither they go, I go; their tzores their troubles are my joy, their joy, my tzores. If theyd die, Id die too!