Harvest - 02 - Harvest of Gold

by Tessa Afshar

  Darius concealed Niq and Nassir just outside Damascus in a small inn, leaving Meres to keep an eye on them. They had strict instructions to keep out of the way until he sent for them. The last thing he needed was for the assassin to spot the Babylonian brothers. Darius knew his best weapon against the king’s enemy was the element of surprise. If the assassin found out that they had followed his scent to Damascus, he would burrow so far underground that no one would ever discover him.

  The palace in Damascus resembled a miniature paradise. Luxury ruled the court. Silk hangings and carpets, the effulgence of hundreds of lamps burning late into the night, endless wine served in gold and silver chalices, priceless perfumes. Darius thought that old general Megabyzus would roar with disapproval if he saw the waste. But he lived safely tucked away in Persia, spending his waning years in comfort. Artaxerxes wished to spare him from the pressures of rule. He remained satrap in name only, receiving the honor and financial reward without having direct command.

  Darius presented himself to Pyrus, the man appointed by Artaxerxes to govern the province of Beyond the River in Megabyzus’s permanent absence. The appointment was another nod in the old general’s direction since Pyrus was Megabyzus’s nephew. No doubt a few strings had been pulled to make the appointment possible. Nepotism had grown rampant amongst the new generations of Persian royalty.

  “Lord Darius, welcome!” Pyrus pronounced with loud enthusiasm when Darius introduced himself. Darius, who had never set eyes on him until that day, had to endure a wine-soaked kiss and an intimate embrace from the acting governor.

  He gave a stiff bow. “His Majesty sends me with his compliments.”

  “How thoughtful of him! I hope our tribute pleased him? I would have come myself, except that I had a terrible bout of toothache.” The smile he flashed was grim enough to indicate he continued to harbor a decaying tooth.

  “The king expressed immense satisfaction with your offering.”

  “And what brings you to our court?” The lax face sharpened. It occurred to Darius that the man might not be as frivolous as he might seem. He seemed keen enough to know he was being measured, at any rate.

  “I travel with the new governor to the province of Judah. The king wished me to stop in Damascus and inquire after your well-being as well as to inform you of the new developments in Judah. The new governor, Nehemiah, intends to rebuild the walls of Jerusalem. The king wishes you to know in case trouble arises in the region.”

  “His Majesty is famed for his generous consideration.”

  Was that a touch of irony Darius detected? Or merely too much wine? The acting satrap was young—no older than thirty. Garbed in embroidered silk from head to foot, his jewelry could probably stock the treasury of the whole empire for a good many days. Darius was no longer surprised at the extent of extravagance in the court. Indeed, he wondered at it not being worse.

  After a long dinner with more courses than one of Damaspia’s formal affairs, a new high official arrived who was introduced to Darius as Zikir. Dressed in mourning, Zikir met Darius with a stiff bow and few words.

  “Lost his grandson to some unfortunate accident recently, poor sod,” Pyrus mumbled in Darius’s ear. “He was never a cheerful man. But now! May the divine Ahura Mazda help us. He is like a mobile funeral. It’s as if he sucks all cheer when he walks into a room.”

  “I am sorry to hear of his loss. How did his grandson die?”

  “No one’s bothered to tell me about it. He used to work around here. I liked him. He had gratifying taste in clothes and the kind of style one does not expect to find Beyond the River in Damascus. Much better company than his grandfather.”

  Darius racked his memory for more information on Zikir, but could not recall anything. He observed the man give orders with dignity. He seemed to have a lot of influence in the court of Damascus. Other officials treated him with a grave respect, which they lacked when they addressed Pyrus.

  As Darius studied the faces around the hall, a young man caught his attention. He seemed familiar. He had dark blond hair, curled in the Persian fashion, and his beard and mustache were dark for such light skin. His loose tunic hid a slim build. Lounging behind a table as he was made it hard to assess his height. Darius guessed it to be just above average. No matter how hard he tried, Darius could not remember where he had seen him before.

  He leaned toward Pyrus. The overpowering scent of sandalwood assailed his nose and he pulled back. “Who is that young man?” he asked, pointing with a subtle move of his chin. “The one in the green robe, sitting toward the end of the hall?”

  “That one? He is a pretty boy, isn’t he? A mere merchant, sadly. Belongs to the king. He’s been here for some weeks in order to commission something or other. Because we are located conveniently between Egypt and Babylonia, we are a haven for merchants. Many such men visit us.”

  “His name?”

  Pyrus straightened the wide sleeve of his tunic. “Cyrus, I believe. Not terribly original.”

  Darius could not recall having met a merchant named Cyrus. Yet something about the man nagged at him. He felt certain they had met before.

  With a sudden move, his host swiveled with enthusiasm, spitting a piece of half-eaten date on the table in his haste. “I forgot to mention it earlier, my lord! You have arrived on an auspicious day. We have arranged for a horse race tomorrow. It will be as exciting as anything you would have experienced in Persepolis, I assure you. Would you like to enter the race?”

  “I appreciate your invitation. Given the fact that I have been on horseback without interruption for three months, I must resist the temptation. I shall enjoy attending, of course.”

  “Excellent. Would you like to place a wager? I can give you a few insightful tips.”

  Darius wiped a round froth of Pyrus’s spittle from his chest. “Thank you. I believe I will enjoy the races better if I am merely observing.”

  “Ah. That’s too bad. One of the favored odds is on that fellow Cyrus you inquired about. You should see him on the back of a horse.”

  “Indeed? How interesting, considering he is a merchant.”

  “Yes. But he rides like a cavalry officer.”

  The races were held early in the morning. Pyrus arrived late, holding up the ceremonies by his delay, looking puffy-eyed and pale. He found his way to Darius.

  “Abominable hour. But it’s the only time of day when the sun does not make physical exertion unbearable. It’s no easy task standing around and watching a race this time of year.”

  Darius gave an amused sidelong glance at his host. “It’s not very easy for those running the race either.”

  “Oh, them.” Pyrus waved a pristine white handkerchief in the air. “They are accustomed to it.”

  Darius, who had run his share of races, didn’t bother to correct him. Instead, he began to examine the riders. He found Cyrus the merchant sitting astride a magnificent horse, lingering toward the back of the line. Again, something about him niggled at Darius’s mind. The way he sat his horse, the way he held the reins, the way he tapped the animal’s neck with an affectionate hand—it all seemed familiar. Where had Darius seen him? He was no merchant—of that, he was certain.

  The race began, and before long Cyrus the merchant had settled himself comfortably in the middle of the pack. It was a long race, and he appeared wise enough to pace himself. Darius admired the young man’s seat, his mastery over the horse, and the ease with which he navigated the crowded racetrack. With unconscious grace, Cyrus leaned forward and signaled his horse to break out. The horse flew.

  Darius stiffened. He had seen that exact move one year before. A different horse, but the same rider. He tightened his mouth in an unconscious gesture of displeasure. Cyrus, indeed.

  Cyrus won the race. He deserved it; Darius had to give him that. No one on the track matched his technique or sheer grace. When the crowd of admirers surrounding him thinned, Darius drew near.

  “Hello, Roxanna,” he whispered in her ear. “That be
ard does not become you.”

  She did not blink. “It’s as itchy as a thousand mosquito bites. But one must put up with these inconveniences for the greater good.”

  Darius wrapped a peremptory hand around her arm. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk without interruption, shall we?”

  To his utter amazement, she threw him a nonchalant smile. “I am at your service, my lord.”

  He had to admire her nerve. Any other highborn woman caught in the guise of a man and misrepresenting herself as an agent of the king would be trembling with fear. Roxanna seemed to be enjoying herself.

  Not far from the racetrack, Darius spotted a verdant garden and began to guide Roxanna that way. After scanning the area to make certain they were alone, he turned on her. “What do you think you are doing? Last year was bad enough. But this is insanity.”

  Roxanna was the daughter of an aristocrat—a lady of high rank. She also happened to be one of the best riders in Persia. The year before, she had donned male disguise and entered a race in Ecbatana. Although royal women were taught to ride and allowed to participate in hunts with men, their freedom did not extend to public races. No woman with aristocratic blood dared enter such a spectacle.

  Except Roxanna. As any witless fool could have predicted, her ruse ended in disgrace.

  Roxanna had not only broken the rules, but she had also shown the poor judgment to win the race. Unfortunately for the girl, several people had recognized her, since she had been surrounded by family and friends in Ecbatana. The court was scandalized. Last he had heard, her betrothed had broken their engagement, saying he could not join his life to a woman who would no doubt continue to embarrass him in public.

  Come to think of it, Darius owed her something of a debt. The scandal of her race had overshadowed the wagging tongues about the debacle of his wedding. At the time, he had been hiding in Ecbatana, trying to forget his disaster of a bride.

  The thought of his wife made him harsher than he intended to be. “What would your father say if he saw you now?”

  “No doubt he would say he was glad he had disowned me.”

  Darius swallowed the string of words he was about to unleash. “He disowned you?”

  Roxanna shrugged. “Sad, isn’t it?”

  “Never mind that. Do you know what the king would do to you if he found out you were impersonating one of his merchants? Have you lost your wits?”

  “Artaxerxes is a forgiving man, unlike my father. I don’t think he would disown me.”

  Darius’s eyes widened. “Great holy fires! You are the king’s agent. You are his spy in Damascus.”

  Roxanna clapped him on the back. “Excellent powers of deduction. Artaxerxes must adore you.”

  “I don’t understand. How did you end up working for him?”

  “After my father disowned me, he arranged to send me to a distant village near Ionia where he owns extensive property. He expected me to spend the rest of my life in lonely exile there. Artaxerxes heard of the arrangement and disapproved. He sent a few of his men to kidnap me while on my way to Ionia.”

  “He forced you to work for him?”

  “Heavens, no. He had no need of that. He gave me a choice. Ionia or his service. Of course I jumped at the chance of becoming one of his spies. He put me to train under one of his masterminds before setting me loose on the world. It’d make your hair stand on end, the things I can do now.”

  “Does your father know?”

  “Of course not. He was told I was kidnapped. By whom or why, he has no idea.”

  Darius began to pace. “This is the height of irresponsibility, Roxanna. I don’t know what Artaxerxes was thinking. You have no idea how much danger you are in. This is no job for a highborn girl.”

  “That’s for me and the king to decide.” The honey-colored eyes grew narrow and cool.

  “So you’re going to spend the rest of your life donning men’s clothing and wearing a false beard, pretending to be something you’re not?”

  “Don’t be an idiot. There are plenty of situations where a woman has more use as a spy than a man. This case presents an exception. Artaxerxes didn’t feel I would be effective around Pyrus as a woman. Now, do you want my report?”

  “Confound it. Yes, I want your report.”

  “Good decision. I have followed the trail of the seal the king sent me and found the designer. As you surmised, it was commissioned here in Damascus.”

  “Oh, good work, Roxanna,” Darius cried, forgetting his disapproval of moments before. “Who commissioned it?”

  “Alas, I could not find that out. The designer never knew. He discovered a pouch on his workbench when he arrived at his shop some months ago. A letter inside gave him directions for the design of the seal.”

  “Where did he drop it off? Who paid him?”

  “The payment was included with the commission letter. He was directed to leave the pouch with the seal at the base of a particular tree in the woods. He obeyed his absent employer’s instructions and never heard about it again.”

  “Another dead end. This man begins to exasperate me. At least we now know for certain that our assassin is in Damascus. That rules out general Megabyzus himself. How about Pyrus? He is Megabyzus’s nephew, after all. Could he be working for his uncle behind the scenes?”

  “I would be surprised if Pyrus is involved in anything more drastic than accepting a few juicy bribes. He loves his position and title, not to mention the luxury they afford him. He would not jeopardize them. I cannot see him masterminding an assassination plot, or even acting as a lackey on behalf of his uncle. I’ve never even known him to be fully sober.”

  “Who is Zikir? He seems to wield considerable power.”

  “Astute observation. He carries a lot of weight in this court. Before Artaxerxes named Pyrus acting satrap, everyone expected Zikir to ascend to power. He hails from Damascus and has considerable connections both with the old guard Beyond the River, and with the Persian government. His authority has not waned although the king has withheld the title from him. Pyrus might be the official leader here, but Zikir rules by force of old influences.”

  “Perhaps he holds a grudge against the king for overlooking him.”

  Roxanna slashed her hand in a dismissive gesture. “He’s famed for being a faithful vassal to the Persian Empire. Why would he risk everything by trying to murder the king for the sake of a promotion? He still holds most of the practical power in Trans-Euphrates.”

  “Well someone tried to kill the king.”

  “Don’t look at me with that accusing expression. I didn’t do it.”

  “Wished that you had. Then I would wring your little neck and be done.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you. Look, I’ve just run an exhausting race. Now, I am going to collect my prize, eat a hearty lunch, bathe, and take a nap. Meanwhile, I shall leave you to discover who lies behind this twisted plot.”

  Darius kicked a loose rock and sent it hurtling into the air. “Marvelous. I have to save the Persian Empire and who do I have to help me? A girl in a fake beard who likes to take naps and two brothers who think the law is a mild suggestion.”

  The heat wave broke the afternoon the convoy arrived in Jerusalem. A gentle drizzle started as they entered Judah’s boundaries, and it continued until they reached their destination. After weeks of scorching heat, the cool rain felt like balm on a throbbing burn.

  Tears mingled with rain on Sarah’s skin as they entered the city. She wasn’t the only one weeping; every man and woman belonging to the lineage of Abraham cried as they came within sight of Jerusalem. They were tears of joy for returning to their ancestral home. They were also tears of horror as they saw the state of the city.

  City was a euphemism. Except for a few extensive buildings and its large territory, Jerusalem had been reduced to a village—and a dilapidated one at that. The walls had sustained considerable damage; in some places they had been razed to the ground. Debris was scattered around in chaotic disorder. As far as the
eye could see, the evidence of fire seared the land. The convoy rode through what must have once been a gate. A few pieces of scorched timber were all that remained of the frame. They must have been magnificent in their day, judging by their width and height. Now they were a withered reminder of lost dreams.

  “This is the City of David?” Pari asked, her voice high with shock.

  “What remains of it.”

  “Lord Nehemiah will need a miracle to restore this place, my lady,” Pari whispered so that no one could overhear them.

  There were few on the convoy from Persia who were privy to Nehemiah’s plans to restore Jerusalem. Those who knew had been instructed by Nehemiah to keep his intentions secret, particularly in Judah, until such time as he was ready to unveil his purpose. The only thing that the city officials knew was that the king had appointed Nehemiah as the new governor of the region.

  “I fear you’re right, my friend. Even Nehemiah cannot manage to turn this rubble into a city. Not without God’s intervention.”

  “Why don’t the people who live here clean up the debris? It’s such a mess.”

  “It’s as if the inhabitants have descended so far into despair that they no longer care about the state of their home.”

  Until such time as Nehemiah could build his own house, he and his retinue took residence in an old building belonging to one of Jerusalem’s noble families. The house had remained uninhabited for a decade, and the city’s desolation had not helped its state. Sarah and Pari were given a small room with peeling clay walls. Flies competed with spiders for residency. Sarah would have preferred to remain in their cart and sleep outdoors. But Nehemiah and Lysander both deemed it unsafe and packed her into her unpleasant room.

  For Sarah, the first three days in Judah passed in a haze. Whenever possible she followed Nehemiah, writing letters, taking down information, and gathering old records while her cousin met with the leaders of Jerusalem. He hid his intentions during those meetings, choosing instead to listen to each official’s report. Mostly, the men griped about how difficult their situation was. None of them took responsibility for the state of the city. They blamed everyone but themselves. Sarah noticed with amusement that her cousin would turn bright red during such discourses. He did manage to control his tongue however—an impressive feat considering the provocation.