Harvest - 02 - Harvest of Gold

by Tessa Afshar

  “How scrupulous you grow of a sudden. I warn you, Babylonian, you better begin to speak the truth, or I will put your head on top of a pike taller than Zikir’s.”

  The man squirmed under Darius’s scrutiny. “I speak the truth, my lord. It was not him who engaged me. Perhaps he sent a servant to employ me. But this was not the man who hired me. That is all I know.”

  Darius ignored the niggling doubt that churned in the pit of his stomach like a sickness. The evidence of logic had piled high enough to convince the most stringent judge. “I do not understand this discrepancy. We arrest him, anyway. I don’t need your testimony to carry my case against him. There is enough external evidence to convict him.”

  The problem, however, was not that he needed Nassir’s testimony. It was that Nassir’s testimony pointed away from Zikir. Rather than indicting him, Nassir was testifying to his innocence.

  Darius ground his teeth and summoned Meres. Roxanna came in dressed as Cyrus just as they were getting ready to leave. “Are we going to arrest Zikir?”

  He rolled his eyes. “I suppose you wish to participate in the festivities?”

  Her wide mouth opened to show a row of very even, white teeth. “I believe you’re beginning to know me.”

  “Lucky me. We have a complication. Nassir claims that Zikir isn’t the man who hired him.”

  “Oh. If you arrest the wrong man, the real culprit might take advantage of the confusion to get away.”

  Darius pulled a hand through his hair. “Do you think I haven’t considered that possibility? Yet how could he be the wrong man? Everything else fits. If we don’t move now, he is sure to attempt on the king’s life again.”

  They departed, en masse, for Zikir’s offices in the palace. Darius decided that he would rather have the Babylonian brothers near him than leave them alone in his room, coming up with ways to create new mischief.

  Zikir’s arrest proved an anticlimax. The old man did not seem surprised by their appearance or by the charges that Darius laid against him. He came to his feet with the slow movements Darius had come to recognize. “You are making a mistake.”

  Something in the tone of Zikir’s voice struck Darius. He sounded resigned. He sounded innocent. Annoyed at his lingering doubts in the face of a mountain of evidence, Darius said nothing, waiting for the old man to move. He gave him his dignity, leaving him free from fetters as they walked down the long passageway in the palace.

  A man walked toward them from the opposite direction, his head bent. He seemed lost in thought. With an incoherent shout, Niq sprinted after him, yelling, “It’s him! It’s him!”

  Before Darius could make a single reasonable inquiry, Niq had the man sprawled on the floor, and was sitting on him, bending his arm behind his back until the man began to moan and mumble for mercy.

  Darius made his way over to the ignoble heap on the floor. He bent to see if he recognized Niq’s prey. The man’s face was squished into the marble tiles until his nose had flattened into an unnatural angle. “Friend of yours?”

  “He’s the dim-witted fool who tattooed my head.”

  By now a crowd of men had begun to gather around them. Darius groaned inwardly, knowing that a quick, clean arrest was no longer an option.

  Turning toward Zikir, he said, “Your servant, I believe.”

  Zikir gave a bitter smile. “You shall find it is not so.”

  A harassed-looking official pushed through the crowd. Darius recognized him as Pyrus’s secretary. “What goes on here?”

  “These men are being arrested for plotting against the king’s life.”

  “Lord Darius! There must be some mistake. You are arresting Lord Pyrus’s man for conspiracy against the king?”

  Darius went still. “Lord Pyrus’s man? Are you certain? Don’t you mean Lord Zikir’s servant?”

  The secretary shook his head until his hat fell forward onto his forehead. He pushed it back into a dignified angle. “I am certain. This man came with Lord Pyrus from Persia. As I recall, he has served him since childhood.”

  Rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index finger, Darius tried to untangle the monstrous knot that this new revelation presented. He cast a look in Zikir’s direction. “Did you bribe Pyrus’s servant to work for you?”

  Zikir said nothing.

  “Time to visit the acting satrap,” Darius announced. “If I have to put the whole lot of you in jail, I will. I will stuff all of Damascus into a prison cell and be done with this case. You have worn out my patience.”

  He changed direction toward Pyrus’s chambers, walking with purposeful steps. Roxanna lingered close, followed by Meres and Arta who walked on either side of Zikir. Niq came next, frog-marching his prisoner, pronouncing loud admonishments like, “Serves you right for tattooing my head with seditious rubbish.” His brother Nassir followed at a more sedate pace. Then came Pyrus’s secretary and what seemed like half the Damascus court trailing behind him.

  Darius’s head was beginning to pound. He wished he could climb on top of Samson and ride like the wind in any direction as long as it was away from this place and the annoying crowd. He shot a glance in Zikir’s direction. His face was devoid of any expression other than exhaustion.

  Darius and his entourage burst into Pyrus’s chamber without bothering to knock. The time for niceties was long over. The acting satrap put down the golden goblet of wine he was holding and came to his feet unsteadily.

  “What is the meaning of this intrusion? What are all these people doing here?”

  Darius did not bother with an answer. He turned to Pyrus’s servant. “Listen. It’s been a long five months chasing after you and your master. I’m in a foul mood, and I think planting my fist in your face might be exactly what I need to make me cheer up. Why don’t you do yourself a favor and tell me who your real master is. It can make considerable difference in how you are treated.”

  The man’s pale irises swam in the white of his eyes. He looked at Pyrus and then at Zikir. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

  Pyrus swayed as he sank down behind his desk again. Picking up his goblet, he took a long swallow. “Would you mind telling me why you are interrogating my servant?”

  “I don’t like his taste in tattoos.”

  “Then by all means, take off his head. I can’t abide bad taste.”

  Darius studied Pyrus. The man was drunk as always. With sudden clarity he remembered Zikir’s words from the morning. That was not always the case. Darius held his breath for a moment.

  “Lord Pyrus, tell me, when did you start drinking so heavily?”

  Pyrus took another heavy mouthful of his wine. His round face had turned red. “That’s none of your affair.” Darius persisted. “People grieve in odd ways. Loss affects everyone differently. Our friend Zikir here, for example, has worn mourning and struggled with melancholy since the death of his grandson. Another man might take to drink. Did you start drinking just before the Persian New Year?”

  Pyrus’s assistant who had managed to make his way into the room, thinking he was aiding his superior, said, “It is true, sir. Lord Pyrus drank in moderation until a few months ago. He received bad news. A friend’s demise, I believe, though he would not say. He has been a good acting satrap. This is a passing problem.”

  Pyrus’s florid skin lost its color. His hands shook around the stem of the goblet to which he clung. To Darius’s surprise, he saw that Zikir had tears in his eyes. It came to him that some tragedy, which had given rise to the assassination attempt, affected both men. Whatever the nature of this mystery, it deserved some privacy.

  “Everyone but my men, out. Now.” Darius knew how to project authority. His voice, his manner, his address had become regal, brooking no resistance. Although the residents of the palace assumed him to be a mere visitor from the king, ranked in their estimation below the acting satrap, they obeyed him without a murmur. Darius motioned for Arta to close the door.

  Before he could speak again, Nassir came forward. “My lord.
This is the man who commissioned me. I am certain of it.” He pointed a finger at Pyrus.

  Darius motioned toward Nassir. “Lord Pyrus, do you recognize this man? Do you now understand what I’m after?”

  “Go to the demons.”

  “I’m afraid you are ahead of me in that line. Tell me why you did it. Why did you try to kill the king? How did you persuade Zikir’s grandson to join you?”

  “Are you the butcher who killed him?” Pyrus came to his feet, holding himself against the table with spread hands. “He was worth ten of you.”

  “He killed himself. Cut his own throat rather than face the possibility of betraying you. So you see, if anyone caused his death, it was you.”

  Pyrus hid his face in trembling fingers. “That’s not true. I loved him.” Lifting his head, he looked at Zikir. “I loved him.”

  Zikir rubbed a hand against his chest. “You ruined him. Xerxes was a good man until you came. You corrupted him, mind and body, and taught him to resent his betters.”

  “I taught him to have pride as befit his lineage!” Pyrus shouted. “Who is Artaxerxes? A nobody. A second son. He only came to the throne because the true prince regent was killed. And yet he sits on that throne as if he owns the world. As if he is superior to everyone.

  “I’m from the same family as he, you know. But all my life, he has treated me like an insect. Because I’m not a soldier, because I’m not a remarkable marksman, I’m not good enough for him. Oh no. He barely tolerates me. This post is the first crumb he has thrown my way, and he only did it for the sake of my uncle. He didn’t even tell me in person. Sent me a missive, penned by his scribe.”

  “This is the whining of a child. You stole my grandson from me for this? For this pathetic excuse of a grievance?”

  “You’d turned Xerxes into a backwater peasant. He was the son of a king! Equal to Artaxerxes by blood and his superior by ability. He deserved to occupy a throne.”

  “I taught him to make the best of what life gave him. You got him killed. For the sake of your whimpering accusations, you taught him to hate. To murder. He’s dead because of you.”

  Pyrus collapsed into his chair. His lips had turned white. “I loved him,” he said again.

  “I know,” Zikir whispered. “I pity you for that love, for I know, better than anyone, what you suffer.”

  Darius signaled Meres to arrest Pyrus, then came to stand before Zikir. “I accused you falsely. For that, I ask your forgiveness. Though in cases such as these, it is customary for the family of the perpetrator to suffer grave punishment as a warning to other miscreants, I will ask the king to spare you and your daughter. You had no part in this. I don’t understand Pyrus’s hold on your grandson. I don’t know how he wielded so much influence over him. But it is obvious that Pyrus carries the greatest share of the blame. Xerxes has already paid the price of his indiscretion with his life. Pyrus’s turn will come too.”

  Zikir collapsed on a stool. “It’s small comfort to me, that man’s death. I will never have my grandson again. And now his name will be dragged through the mud. I wished I could have spared him of that.”

  Darius thought for a moment. “Perhaps I can arrange to keep his role in this plot from becoming common knowledge. The important thing is that the king’s life is safe. Tell me one thing, Zikir. When I gave you the opportunity to destroy Pyrus’s reputation, why did you not take it? I understand that you wished to keep your grandson’s memory unsullied. But you could have used many other ways to end Pyrus’s reign here. I certainly gave you a lot of opportunity.”

  “Did you not notice how he suffers? What more could I do to him?”

  Admiration for the old man filled Darius. He liked the dignity the grieving grandfather displayed. He also liked the pity that prevented him from destroying a ruined man like Pyrus. “I must leave Damascus soon,” he said. “This place will need a steady rule in the wake of such a scandal. Will you agree to act as satrap until the king decides what to do?”

  “I am tired. This position, the power that comes with it—none of it means anything now that Xerxes is dead.”

  Darius laid a hand on Zikir’s shoulder. “It’s never meaningless to serve your people and give them a better life. You are honest and wise. You can still make a difference for your nation. I know you are tired. Grief has devoured your heart. Still, I’m asking you to stay the course. Pay the price for the sake of the people you can help.”

  Zikir turned his face toward the wall. Darius could see rivulets of tears as they ran down his cheek. Slowly, the old man nodded.

  Darius decided to spend the night in the modest inn where he had concealed Sarah. The thought of staying at the palace in Damascus turned his stomach. Too much bitterness lingered in the shadows of that place.

  He had sent Pyrus and his servant, along with a detachment of Persian soldiers stationed in Damascus, ahead to Susa. The king would deal with the details of the case. He had written a long letter, explaining everything that he had found out and asking for the king’s clemency toward Zikir. Part of him wished to go ahead to Susa as well. He longed for the peace of home. But Sarah could not make such a long journey in her condition, and he had decided not to leave her alone again. She would have to remain Beyond the River until she delivered their child. So that was where he intended to stay.

  Nassir and Niq had gone ahead to Susa with Pyrus’s detachment to bring the strength of their personal testimonies to the case, and to plead with the king for the freedom of their brothers. Darius had included another plea on their behalf in his letter, asking for more clemency. Besides, he had plans for Niq.

  His mouth twisted into a humorless smile as he remembered Niq teaching Roxanna a high kick—at her insistence, of course. She had landed him on the floor the first three times because he had refused to hurt a woman. By the fourth round, he had caught on that she wasn’t just any woman, and Roxanna had gone flying up in the air and slammed so hard on the ground that her eyes had crossed. Darius tried not to enjoy that memory too much. That woman! She would be the bane of some poor man’s existence one of these days. In the meantime, the service of the king was probably the best place for her.

  She had insisted on inviting herself along to the inn. Darius had the uneasy feeling that he had not seen the last of her.

  “Don’t you have to go to Egypt? To deliver that grotesque robe the king sent for the satrap?” he asked her as they rode.

  She had changed back into her women’s garb halfway to their destination, saying she could not very well enter a public place such as a palace or an inn as a man and leave as a woman. It would lead to unpleasant talk. So she had found a tree to change behind. Now, hair demurely covered by a linen scarf, she looked the picture of sweet femininity.

  “There’s no hurry. Besides, you’re going in my direction.”

  “That’s a fearsome thought. All the way to Jerusalem, I suppose. It would be like Artaxerxes to get an added report out of one of his spies.”

  At the inn, they found Sarah, Lysander, and Pari gathered around a flimsy table, throwing dice. They were using pistachio shells to count the points. Pari had one left. Lysander had managed to hold on to six or seven. A mountain of them sat in front of his wife.

  The unwanted warmth that at times filled him at the sight of her rushed over him. “Watch out. She cheats,” he said, and walked in, trying to appear nonchalant.

  “I do not!” Sarah bounced to her feet. He thought she would be unsteady, given the change in her body, and put his arm around her to keep her from wobbling. Once his hands found their way to her warm curves, though, they seemed unwilling to let go. Instead of stepping away as he intended, he pulled her into his embrace and held her there. She smelled of roses. He wondered how she had managed that in a dilapidated place like this, and drew her closer. He felt a torrent of emotions he could hardly recognize pass through him. It took him a few moments to discipline himself to step away.

  He was breathing rapidly, the sound of his harsh inhalations stra
nge in his own ears. He struggled with a confusion he found unfathomable. Uncertainty was not a familiar experience to him, and he found he did not like it. He had to admit that he had failed at growing indifferent toward her. Even her betrayal—her lies and manipulations—had failed to destroy his deepening attachment to her. She drew him in a way no one had managed to do since he was a child. He crossed his arms and leaned his shoulder against the wall, trying to give the impression of a man whose world wasn’t turning on its head.

  “Did you solve the mystery of the king’s assassination attempt?” Lysander picked up his pistachio shells and stuffed them in his pocket. “Have you discovered the identity of the culprit?”

  “And who might you be?” For once, Darius was glad for Roxanna’s forward manner. He was in no mood for long explanations.

  Lysander came to his feet, his movements deliberate. “I was about to ask you the same question.”

  There was a moment of silence as the two studied each other, neither willing to give in first. Sarah, the peacemaker, swept an arm toward Lysander. “Forgive me,” she said. “I should have thought to introduce you. Lysander, this is Roxanna. She has been helping Darius in Damascus. Roxanna, meet Lysander of Sparta, a friend of Darius. He has accepted the commission to work with my husband on this case.”

  “Sparta?” Roxanna sounded shocked. Darius knew that since the battle of Thermopylae in the time of King Xerxes, the Persians had grown an unwilling respect for the courage of Spartans. They still considered them crude and uncultured, hardly worth mention, but the way those men fought to the death had left its mark on Persian memory.

  “So you are a mercenary?” Roxanna said the words as if she was accusing Lysander of being a slimy earthworm. This was not going well, Darius thought.

  “And what are you? By your accent you are Persian and highborn. What kind of aristocratic woman aids in the solving of royal crimes? I wouldn’t be surprised to find you belonged to Artaxerxes’ dirty-tricks department. Are you one of his famed spies?”