The Judgment of Cambyses

                Preface.

On September 10, 2016, Colonel Zakharchenko, the head of the anti-corruption department in the financial and banking service of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, got slapped with some serious charges. The anti-corruption department of  the Russian Federal Security Service (FSB) accused him of bribery, abusing his position, and obstructing justice.

As the investigation into the Zakharchenko case unfolded, the sleuths stumbled upon some jaw-dropping discoveries. Turns out, the Colonel had a firm grip on 13 luxurious condos (each offering breathtaking views of the Kremlin from their windows) and 14 extravagant villas nestled in the upscale neighborhoods of Moscow. But wait, that's not all—they also came across four sleek luxury cars parked in his garages, and an astounding one hundred and thirty million dollars in crisp cash just scattered on the floor of one of his apartments. The sheer weight of the cash, including euros, dollars, and rubles, loaded onto two cargo pallets, tipped the scales at an astonishing two metric tons, adding to the mind-boggling extravagance of his ill-gotten wealth.

                Story.

Paris. May 2016.
In late May, I found myself meandering through the illustrious halls of the Louvre, surrounded by the awe-inspiring works of the Renaissance masters from the 16th and 17th centuries. My mission? To reunite with the captivating paintings of my favorite Flemish artists. It had been a year since I last laid eyes on them, and I was convinced that their masterpieces must be nestled somewhere in close proximity. But alas, as time passed, my frustration grew, and I couldn't contain it any longer. In my feeble attempt at conversing in French, I approached the curator of the Flemish painters' hall and exclaimed, "I simply cannot, for the life of me, locate Jan van Eyck's magnum opus, 'Madonna of Chancellor Rolin'."

"I've been to the Louvre before," I added, "and I'm pretty darn sure it's supposed to be here somewhere, among the other early Renaissance masters, but it's nowhere to be found."

This tall, slender woman, probably in her mid-forties, looked at me with curiosity. She rose from her chair and asked in English, "That's kinda odd. Out of the thousands of paintings by renowned masters gracing the wealthiest museum in the world, you're fixated on finding this particular Jan van Eyck painting. Why Jan van Eyck?"

"Well, van Eyck painted it seventy years before Leonardo da Vinci blessed us with the Mona Lisa. He outpaced those Italians by a whole century, especially when it came to the intricate details in the backgrounds of his artworks."

"Are you Russian, by any chance?" the curator surprised me with her question.

"And you?" I replied, and we both shared a laugh. It wasn't a surprise to find two compatriots in the heart of Paris, attempting to discuss high art in languages foreign to both of us.

Later, I learned that my conversation partner was a PhD in Art History. She had traded her position at the storage department of the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg for a curatorial role at the Louvre a few years back. That explained her strong reaction to my inquiry about the "Madonna of Chancellor Rolin." Turns out, that specific painting by van Eyck was the subject of her doctoral thesis.

Unfortunately, I couldn't feast my eyes on the painting since the hall showcasing it was closed for restoration. Nevertheless, my conversation with the knowledgeable lady about Flemish art ignited a burning desire within me to visit the historic Belgian city of Bruges—where the legendary master Jan van Eyck had lived, worked, and ultimately bid farewell to this world.


Bruge. September 2016.

Immersed in the enchanting works of my favorite artist and appreciating the talents of his Flemish counterparts, Hans Memling and Jan Provost, I came across a diptych painting titled "The Judgment of Cambyses." These two panels, placed side by side, were the creation of another local master, Gerard David.
The elder of the city of Bruges had commissioned him to bring to life the legendary tale of King Cambyses passing judgment on a corrupt judge, as chronicled by Herodotus in the fifth century BC. However, the ruler had specifically requested that the Persians be depicted wearing clothes from the medieval era.

According to Herodotus in his "Histories," "Accusing the judge Sisamnes of bribery, King Cambyses of Persia ordered the poor chap to be skinned alive. Then they tanned his skin, cut strips from it, and stretched them over the chair where the king's deputy used to sit. But that wasn't the end of it. After that gruesome act, the king appointed the corrupt judge's own son to take his father's place.

"Every time you make a decision in someone's favor," Cambyses lectured the young judge, "take a good look at the seat you're sitting on and the armrests where your hands rest. Remember how your benefactor met his end."

Once Gerard David completed his masterpiece, the city's elder ordered the diptych painting to be prominently displayed in the town hall, right in the very hall where court hearings took place. For three centuries, these two panels (one depicting the horrific scene of the judge being skinned, and the other showcasing his son seated upon a chair upholstered with his father's own skin) hung prominently in the hall, serving as a haunting reminder for judges and citizens alike who frequented the space. Across generations, these chilling depictions ingrained a profound truth into the hearts of Flemish people—a truth that punishment is an inescapable fate, devoid of any mercy.

                Afterword.

There I stood before the "Judgment of Cambyses," just a day after news broke about the millions of dollars discovered in the possession of the so-called "humble" anti-corruption warrior, Colonel Zaharchenko. As I scrutinized the intricate details of the artwork, I couldn't help but wonder if Zaharchenko and his ilk were aware that their ill-gotten millions would ultimately lead to their own grotesque fate. Would they still accept those mind-boggling bribes if they knew that one day, their very skin would be meticulously peeled off layer by layer to upholster the chairs in the very offices where they were arrested in handcuffs?

The stark contrast struck me deeply. The capital of the Canadian province of New Brunswick, Fredericton, had a budget in 2016 that paled in comparison to the extravagant stash amassed by this corrupt Russian police officer in just one of his condos. It was a jarring reminder of the extreme disparities in wealth and the consequences that awaited those who abused their power for personal gain.