That's the kind of tension that grips the story of Mordecai in the Book of Esther, and it starts with a seemingly innocent question from King Ahasuerus.
"Is there aught left of those toothsome morsels?" he asks. "Are there still prophets abroad?" It's a moment of levity, perhaps, but it sets the stage for what's to come.
Following this, as Legends of the Jews recounts, Mordecai is elevated to a position previously held by the chamberlains Bigthan and Teresh. Now, these weren’t just any court officials; they were senators! You can imagine their outrage, right? To them, it was an insult – a "barbarian" (as they saw him) now occupied their prestigious place.
Their anger festered into a plot. According to Ginzberg's retelling in Legends of the Jews, they wanted revenge – not just on the king, but on Mordecai as well. Their plan was chillingly simple: poison the king. As royal butlers, they had ample opportunity to slip something deadly into his drink.
But here's where the story takes a sharp turn. Bigthan and Teresh, blinded by their hatred, assumed Mordecai wouldn't understand their conversations. They spoke in Tarsian, their native tongue, confident that their plans were safe. They wanted to make it look as if Ahasuerus had died because he trusted a Jew instead of them.
Big mistake.
They completely underestimated Mordecai. They were ignorant of the fact that Mordecai was a member of the Sanhedrin, the high court of ancient Israel. And what does that mean? Well, according to tradition, members of the Sanhedrin knew all seventy languages of the world! Can you imagine the shock when Mordecai understood every venomous word?
Their secret language, the very thing they thought would protect them, became their undoing. As the story unfolds, Mordecai exposes their treachery, saving the king's life and setting in motion a series of events that would ultimately lead to the salvation of the Jewish people.
It makes you wonder, doesn't it? How often do we underestimate others, assuming we know more than we do? How often does our own arrogance become our downfall? And perhaps most importantly, how often are we being watched, listened to, even when we think we're alone?