The Richest Man in Babylon

The Richest Man in Babylon

*George S. Clason*

It is late afternoon in Babylon, and Bansir the chariot-builder is sitting on the low wall that borders his modest courtyard, staring at an unfinished chariot in the dust below. He has been sitting there for an hour. Maybe two. The chisel is in his hand but the chisel has not moved, because something worse than laziness has overtaken him -- a slow, creeping awareness that has been trying to surface for years and has finally broken through. His wife glances at him from the doorway. Her eyes flick to the nearly empty food jar and back to him. She says nothing. She does not need to.

Kobbi the musician appears at the gate, his lyre slung over one shoulder, his face carrying that particular expression of a man who is about to ask for something he already suspects he cannot have. He needs two shekels. Just until after the nobleman's feast, he says. Just for a few days. Bansir looks at him for a long moment and says quietly that two shekels would be his entire fortune. Kobbi sits down on the wall beside him.

Two old friends. Two skilled craftsmen. Two men who have worked every day of their adult lives in the richest city the ancient world has ever known. And between them, not enough coin for a decent meal.

They sit and watch a line of water bearers shuffle past, slaves bent under heavy goatskins, faces empty, feet raising small clouds of dust. Kobbi is the one who finally says it out loud. "We are no better off than these men. We are free -- and we have nothing." They have earned good money across the years. They have built reputations. They have improved their crafts. And somehow, always, at the end of every month, the purse is as empty as it was at the beginning.