Harvest - 02 - Harvest of Gold

by Tessa Afshar

  The coins in the Persian Empire were, therefore, not uniform. Depending on where they were minted, they portrayed a variety of images. Thus the coins Darius had found brought them one step closer to the mastermind behind the plot. The man who had planned to kill the king had likely paid his assassin with local coins.

  “Phoenician?” Lysander guessed.

  “I’m not sure. Sarah will know.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Yes. She was the queen’s senior scribe before she married me and is a fount of astounding information.”

  “Ah. I look forward to meeting this paragon. You have kept her hidden far too long. Let us finish our search, collect our corpse, and head to your house. Is there any food to be found in that great mansion of yours? Dead bodies make me hungry.”

  SPRING, SUSA

  The satrapy of Beyond the River,” Sarah declared as she examined the coins. “If I had to guess, I would say these were coined in Damascus, the principal city of Syria.” They had gathered in the dining room and settled themselves on comfortable cushions around a low, silver and gold table. Tantalizing wafts of herbs and spices filled the room. Sarah, preoccupied with her exploration, forgot to offer to serve the men.

  When she lifted her head, she found Pari, always more aware of social necessities than her mistress, filling the gap by heaping mouthwatering food on golden plates for Darius and his friend. She smiled at her handmaiden before returning her focus to her husband and Lysander.

  They had come in directly from their grueling day, sparing no time to change. Both wore ragged, ill-fitting clothing that must have once belonged to other men. The ripe smell clinging to the folds of threadbare fabric suggested that the original owners of the robes had not been too particular about cleanliness. Sarah tried to ignore the bloodstains on Darius’s knees and chest, knowing they belonged to the dead assassin.

  In spite of their gruesome costumes, the sweat that clung to their dirt-covered faces, and the general air of disrepute with which they had arrayed themselves, the two men still presented a striking picture. Darius’s olive-skinned, masculine beauty contrasted with Lysander’s blond comeliness. Where Darius was tall and rippled with narrow muscles, Lysander was of average height and massive. Beneath the trappings of their disguise, and the deeper physical power that rags could not cover, Sarah noticed that they were bone weary.

  “So you now have a name and a location. That’s a good start,” she said.

  “He may have given a false name,” Darius said. “We need more specific clues than that if we are to find the identity of one man. How about the seal? Did you find anything promising connected with it?”

  Sarah looked down. “It’s been a disappointment, I fear. The whole purpose of a seal is to reveal the identity of the sender, thereby establishing the authenticity of the message being sent. In this case, you would think they had created a seal to cover their identity. It is entirely anonymous as far as I can make out.”

  “Meant to be recognized by only a few, no doubt. A secret group who would know the sender by his secret seal.” Darius set down his cup.

  “Precisely. I found a tiny fragment of lapis lazuli in the cavity of the wax, suggesting that is what the seal is made of. Not a rare enough material to point us to a particular location. But they do use lapis seals in Damascus, which supports the location. The style of the palm trees is also a good match. I think we should begin our search there.”

  “You had better return the seal to me if you are finished with it. The king can send agents to Damascus to try and unearth the artist who designed it.”

  Lysander reached for another piece of roasted venison. “We know this plot has its origin in high places. The fact that our assassin would be bearing gifts to the king on New Year’s Day suggests that the plan to kill the king might have originated with a governor or even someone as high as a satrap. Who is the satrap of Trans-Euphrates these days?”

  “Megabyzus,” Darius said.

  “Megabyzus, as in the king’s brother-in-law? That old goat? He must be nearly eighty years old by now. He goes as far back as the king’s father, Xerxes.”

  Sarah leaned forward as she remembered an old piece of palace gossip. “Wasn’t there a scandal involving Megabyzus and his sons several years ago? As I recall, they rose in revolt against Artaxerxes.”

  “Yes, they did,” Darius said. “Then the king negotiated an unconditional pardon for him. Artaxerxes loves that old man. Not only did Megabyzus save his life decades ago, he also secured Artaxerxes’ throne after his father was murdered. Artaxerxes is not a man to forget such service.”

  Sarah cleared her throat. “Perhaps Megabyzus has decided to throw the king’s pardon back in his face. Perhaps whatever caused the uprising in the first place has not been resolved.” Accusing the king’s favorite general and brother-in-law of treason, even in the privacy of her home, was no light matter. But if the king’s life were to be secured, every angle needed to be examined with care.

  Darius lowered his brows. “It’s a good theory. It fits enough of the facts of our case to merit a careful follow-up. Still, something nags at me. Megabyzus is not a man who would resort to poison. It would be more like him to rise up again in open revolt.”

  “Perhaps he’s grown too old for revolts but remains spry enough to bear a grudge,” Sarah said. “Poison might be the weapon of choice when you can no longer wield a sword.”

  Darius placed a palm against his side, wincing. Sarah remembered his cracked ribs, and realized that the day’s physical activities must have placed an additional strain on his injured body. She wished she could make him rest, but knew that he would resist the suggestion. His upcoming interview with the king weighed heavily on his mind. Sarah suspected that he felt he had failed his monarch by allowing their man to die.

  When he had first arrived home she had tried to comfort him. Instead of opening up to her, she had sensed him recede behind a wall, hiding his emotions. She felt shut out and unwelcome. He had sought her out because he trusted her knowledge. But his feelings were locked away from her.

  “There is too much mystery. I fear for the safety of the king,” he said, pushing away his full plate.

  “Let’s look at things from a different angle,” she said. “Let’s examine the trail that has led us thus far.

  “If the king and queen had not decided to invite us to Susa when they did, and if the queen’s letter had not tarried due to a mistake, you and I would not have been on that road at exactly the moment when the Babylonian brothers were travelling. Furthermore, if you had not chosen to ride with fewer men than usual—five, including you—Nassir would never have attacked us. And if the sun had not shone at just the right angle, I probably would have missed the tattoos on Niq’s head. Think of how many details had to fall into place in order for us to intercept the assassination plot.”

  With a shy movement, Sarah reached across the table and placed her hand on his. “Do you not feel that we were meant to discover this plot? If that is the case, then perhaps we are meant to solve it as well.”

  Darius’s lashes swept down to hide his expression. With a gentle motion he disentangled his hand from Sarah’s hold. “I do not believe in your Lord, Sarah. These things were mere coincidences, not God’s intervention. If I want to protect the king, I need to rely on hard work and clever planning. I cannot depend on the help of your God.”

  Darius spent a poor night, tossing and turning with physical pain and mental stress. With some discomfort, he remembered his harsh words to Sarah. She had only been trying to help. In a way, he wished he could have her faith. It would bring him a measure of peace. He had spent so many years running from his mother’s God, however, that it had become second nature. Darius knew that the fastest way to displeasing his father was to chase after this Jewish God. He had made his decision to walk away from that part of his heritage long ago. When his mother had been near death, and had spent hours enchanting him with tales of her God’s faithfulness and love, he had k
nown that he would have to choose between her world and the one in which he had grown up. And he had made his choice. His father’s world over his mother’s. And now his wife’s. He would not go back on that decision.

  Early in the morning, he made his way to Artaxerxes’ palace for the interview he dreaded. The king’s mellow response came as a surprise. Darius had expected coldness. Open displeasure. Even a royal tantrum. Instead, Artaxerxes, paler than usual, listened with gravity and asked the piercing, intelligent questions that Darius had come to expect from him.

  “Megabyzus?” he asked, when Darius made the connection. “I don’t believe it. The man saved my life and my throne when I was but a lad. Why do you suspect him?”

  “He has already risen in revolt against you once, Your Majesty.”

  “Those days are over. He was angry with my mother for meddling in his business, and with me for not stopping her. That revolt was an anomaly in the life of a man who has spent his days serving the empire and her kings. Serving me.” He plucked a fat purple grape from its stem and played with it before replacing it on the plate. “What other evidence do you hold against him?”

  “As the satrap of the Trans-Euphrates, he lives in Damascus and uses Syrian coin.”

  “He has not lived in Damascus for some years. Though he remains satrap in name, others do the work. He has no need to tip his hand by using Syrian coin.”

  Darius blinked in surprise. “I had not realized.”

  “It is not publicized. I do not wish to embarrass him, but the daily work of running a region as large as Trans-Euphrates is too much for him now.”

  “There is another concern which seems to point to Megabyzus. The assassin’s name and tattoo both had royal Persian connections. Megabyzus is part of the royal family by virtue of having married your older sister, Your Majesty. Therefore he loves the royal family and is faithful to the Achaemenid line. But perhaps he has not forgotten his grudge against you. Perhaps he loves the dynasty, just not you.”

  Artaxerxes stretched his feet on an ornate footstool. “We deal with a paradox here, I grant you. I shall send an agent to Damascus to look into the matter.”

  Darius’s head snapped up. “I thought I …”

  The king waved his hand. “No. I want you here for now. We must still weather the coming weeks and the endless rounds of visitations by foreign dignitaries. I will be more vulnerable to plots during this time. I could use you here.

  “In the meantime, I will have my agents keep an eye on Megabyzus. But if you are mistaken about him, we need to continue our search to find the true culprit. Once he finds out that his plot has been foiled, he might try again.”

  The New Year dawned blue and hot, an annoyance for the hundreds of officials who had to don layers of formal court attire, cover their heads with appropriate hats, caps, and crowns, wear long sleeves and trousers under their voluminous robes, and apply fake beards and hairpieces in order to look presentable for the most punctilious day of the year. The royal presentation of gifts lasted for hours, sometimes days. Darius did not know how Artaxerxes could bear the ceremonial weight with such apparent good grace. He supposed that replenishing the national coffers with fresh wealth gave him extra forbearance. Feeding large armies and navies, crushing rebellions, aiding allies, and conquering new territories required a generous treasury. If Artaxerxes had to entertain half the world in order to have it, he would make the necessary sacrifice and smile through what must have been only one step better than torture.

  Wives and daughters of officials celebrated the Great Feast in the women’s quarters as Queen Damaspia’s guests. They were invited to attend the king’s banquet for part of the royal presentation of gifts, however. Darius searched for Sarah as the women gathered in a corner gallery especially prepared for them. Having spent most of his time away from home, several days had passed since he had been in her company.

  He found her listening with polite interest to a lady dressed in Phoenician garb. As if sensing his scrutiny, she turned her face toward him. Eyes the color of mahogany brightened as soon as she detected him. The tilt of her mouth tinged with secret warmth aimed solely at him. Darius felt a jolt of satisfaction at the private welcome in her smile. An official with a tall hat who had obscured his view moved. Darius’s heart picked up speed.

  She had donned a new dress the color of rubies. His mouth ran dry as he saw her generous curves hugged in the outrageously tight outfit, cinched at the waist with a belt of golden rosettes and flaring into a long skirt made of hundreds of tiny pleats.

  He narrowed his eyes and dug in his heels as a violent urge to stride across the hall and cover her with something large—and very bulky—overwhelmed him. If he had caught a man looking at her at that particular moment, he did not think he could have controlled his impulse to flatten him with a well-placed blow. In the back of his mind he registered that other women were dressed in a similar fashion, and that Sarah was following the dictates of the latest court styles. The knowledge did nothing to cool the fiery kick of possessiveness that had overcome him. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to rein in the unaccustomed emotions.

  It took every bit of his inner resolve to focus his attention back on the king. He lingered near the monarch for the length of the ceremonies, not taking his eyes off him for one moment. As the end of the evening approached, Darius bid Lysander to take charge of the special guard over the king for several hours. Knowing Sarah would have made her way home already, Darius rode to his estate not bothering to change from his court finery, driving Samson so hard the horse arrived covered in sweat.

  He found Sarah sitting on a stool before a mirror, still adorned in her ruby dress. A servant girl whose name escaped him had taken down the elaborate braids and tucks of Sarah’s hair and was busy combing through the thick mass. Dispensing with formalities, Darius snapped his head to the side, signaling for the girl to leave. Sensing his dark mood, she scurried out. He prowled over to his wife. He had to kneel to be at eye level with her. Words stuck in his throat. Instead, he kissed her, his touch rough from feelings he had not been able to fully master. She gasped and he pulled away.

  “Don’t ever … ever … wear that dress again. Ever.”

  Her eyes widened. “You didn’t like it?”

  He kissed her again. He could not seem to help himself. “No.” His mouth slid to her neck. “Yes.” His kiss grew soft. “You can wear it. But only for me.”

  She giggled. He could feel the rise and fall of her chest under his lips. “I love you, Darius.”

  He tangled his fingers into the folds of the silken skirt and pulled so that she slithered forward on the stool.

  “Darius, do you—?”

  With a quick movement, he covered her mouth with a hard hand. “Don’t,” he commanded. He knew what she was about to ask. Softening his voice, he said again, “Don’t ask that. I won’t lie to you, Sarah. I don’t want to hurt you. But I won’t say what I don’t feel.”

  She lowered her lashes to cover the sheen of hot tears from him. He drew her closer, spending long hours trying to make her forget what he could not give her, cradling her in his arms until she fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Far into the night he lay awake, thinking of the question he had not allowed her to ask. He remembered how he had once longed to be married for love. Like most men of his station, he had had to settle for an arranged marriage, however. He had thought that dream buried because of the circumstances. Now he began to ask himself a more difficult question. Was he capable of love? Had his heart so hardened that in spite of longing for the idea of love, he could not enter the reality of it? He punched his pillow and turned over.

  Unlike previous years when Artaxerxes stayed to sup with his guests during the magnificent feasts of the New Year, he now took his meals in private with the queen. Darius was relieved by this precaution. Nehemiah the cupbearer, privy to the danger that threatened the king, remained near him even after he finished his meals in case Artaxerxes became thirsty or had to
taste wine during the ceremonies. Darius felt grateful for Nehemiah’s vigilance. For once, he set aside his discomfort around his wife’s cousin and rested in the knowledge that, whether he liked the man or not, he could trust him with the king’s life.

  Darius had acquired the official list of visitors, and had checked each one in person before they were allowed to approach the king. By the third day, every single official visitor had shown up with an appropriate gift. Not one was missing. The officials representing the provinces within the Trans-Euphrates satrapy had been scrutinized with extra care. Each ambassador had proven genuine. Achaemenes must have planned to replace one of them at the last moment.

  Darius set up private interviews with the delegates from the Trans-Euphrates provinces. Not one of them had heard of a man named Achaemenes.

  As the thirteenth day of the New Year with its closing picnic celebrations finally dawned, Darius grew no closer to solving the riddle of the assassination plot than he had when he first discovered it on Niq’s shaven scalp. At least the king remained alive.

  According to royal spies, old Megabyzus had been behaving himself. Darius hoped Megabyzus did not have them duped. Even if he were innocent of this crime, it was small comfort to Darius, who fretted about the possibility of an unknown enemy while continuing to suspect the old general.

  Darius understood the gravity of the threat. More than Artaxerxes’ life was at stake. The king’s sons were young—some would consider them too young to rule. Were he to die now, the empire would slide into a bloodbath of ambitious men, each trying to wrest power from the other. Persia could not afford to lose its king yet. And it was up to Darius to ensure his safety. The days glided by until spring was no longer new. Darius, who by the king’s permission had retained his special band of twelve warriors in addition to the two Babylonian brothers, discovered no breakthroughs.