by Tommy Tenney
And, Esther, how beautiful I felt—my feet shod in gold-threaded sandals, my hair woven with rare purple lilies, my gown of iridescent red silk, my face intricately painted with Egyptian hues, my body seeming to travel within its own fragrant cloud of myrrh and incense. I’m sure I floated across that courtyard and in through the King’s massive gold-leafed doors, although the truth is, I hardly remember the walk at all.
What a relief it was to be met at the door by none other than Mordecai, rather than some unfamiliar and perhaps unsympathetic Master of Audiences. And an additional solace to realize that King Artaxerxes is an altogether different man than his father, Xerxes, when you first met him. The son is young, less world-weary, and, forgive me, appears to be more like a sympathetic figure than the Xerxes of old. I expected him to be a good man simply because I know the woman who largely raised him.
I’ll never forget the creak of those huge doors opening and that eternal walk across the marble floor to his bedchamber. He stared at me the whole time with an appraising smile upon his face. I worked very hard to meet that gaze and experience the joy of presenting him with the most precious gift I could give—that of myself.
I stood him before him, and his smile was so broad and infectious I simply stood in its warmth for a long moment.
“You’re very beautiful . . . Leah, I believe your name is,” he said. And then, almost catching himself, he added, “I do not say this to every woman who enters my chamber. In fact, I may have never uttered this before.”
I did not know whether or not to believe him. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” I said with a small bow. “You are quite . . . thrilling to behold yourself.”
This reply seemed to please him, for he smiled wider, even chuckled a bit. “Oh, really? Am I? Now, would you have said this if I had been a sixty-year-old hunchback, as some of my ancestors who shall remain nameless?”
I thought for a moment. “Your Majesty, I hope I would have found some diplomatic way to frame an honest reply.”
His eyebrows rose at that. “Ah. Wisdom and intelligence mixed with beauty. Leah may prove a formidable candidate for queen,” he added, as if addressing an unseen throng.
“I do not believe in attempting anything halfway.”
“So, determined as well. It is a rare quality in one so young.”
“I am twenty years old, Your Majesty. But I am old enough to know that His Majesty would not be served by a spineless and silent queen.”
“Oh, you are, are you?” he said with a raised eyebrow and a chuckle. “And what harem gossips have passed on these insights to you?”
I felt my face grow warm and looked down to search for an appropriate reply. “I know there are older women in the harem,” I replied at last. “But I have received wise counsel since I arrived there, and I have listened closely.”
“Have you become a favorite of my chamberlain, Hathach?”
“I count him as a friend, Your Majesty. As I do Her Highness, Queen Esther.”
“You mean Queen-Regent Hadassah?” he queried with a knowing nod. “Surely you know of her retaking her childhood name.”
“Yes, I do. I also know that she is an astute observer of the ways between kings and queens.”
“Or kings and queen-candidates? You have not won yet, you know, Leah.”
“No, but I place myself at your service,” I said with another small bow.
He took a deep, portentous breath and met my gaze with a glint of awe in his look. He took two bold steps and embraced me.
Having never been with a man before, I was quite shocked at the sensations that swept over me. A flood tide of emotions I had held in check for years came rushing forth and simply overwhelmed my senses.
One part of me was thrilled to be plunging headlong into the tumbling well of passion that can grow between a man and a woman.
Another part of me felt guilt, having repressed these feelings for so long. I know that as Mordecai had taught me, I was not to accept any pangs of guilt. I really had no choice. Refusing this fate would have meant immediate death for me and my family alike. Just as I was taken forcefully into the palace, so was I taken to the King’s bed. My mind understands that if I had no choice, I should feel no shame. Yet my heart struggled with mixed emotions over the pleasurable sensations now overwhelming my body.
Esther, it was almost as if I were a spectator, observing all that happened, attempting to pass judgment over right and wrong.
Thankfully, I need not elaborate for you what happened next, except to say that it was as wonderful, as frightening, and as pleasurable as you had led me to believe. And since I have heard of alternate outcomes from older concubines, I am very grateful for this fact: thanks to your advice, I must have pleased him, although I have nothing against which to compare that belief.
Several times during that night, Artaxerxes gave me looks of astonishment and even wonder. At one time during my upbringing I might have believed that behavior of this sort was a sign of wantonness or low character, but thanks to you and Mordecai, I was able to dismiss such perspectives in my current situation.
When our passion was expended, I thought I had slain him, or at least wounded him in some dreadful way. But after lying motionless for a terrifying moment, he opened his eyes, smiled at me, and raised himself to lean against the pillows. Upon seeing the fright on my face, he caressed my cheek and proceeded to reassure me that his stillness was actually due to a state of ecstasy, not of injury. In fact, rather than causing his demise, I had created delight.
That moment of brief repose was one item of sexual knowledge you failed to impart to me, my friend.
And then he and I gazed into each other’s eyes for a very long time, longer than I can estimate, as a veil of incredible ease, warmth, and conversation seemed to float down upon us. He genuinely seemed as intrigued about my life as he was about my body. I opened my heart to him, although, because of Mordecai’s warnings, I remained coy about my Jewish heritage.
On the surface I felt incredibly happy, even thrilled at all the things I felt coursing through my senses and my heart. Yet deeper down I continued to struggle with feelings of shame and remorse. As I have told you, I knew that I had no choice in the matter, and that my lack of choice absolved me from ultimate guilt. But something about how much I enjoyed this night ignited continued turmoil within me.
Finally, he spoke with the question that nearly became my undoing.
“Leah, what is so special about you? What sort of spell are you weaving about me?”
I laughed at those words and flashed him a meaningful glance through the corners of my eyes.
“Come here,” he said, raising up one arm. So I snuggled in beside him, marveling at the intimacy of his whole skin upon mine, and laid my head upon his shoulder.
And we fell asleep.
I woke up to the sight of his face, shrouded in shadow, raised up and close to mine. Watching me with both passion and tenderness.
“Hello, Leah,” he said in a low voice.
Momentarily startled, I replied. “Hello, Your Majesty.”
He shook his head. “No, please, call me Artaxerxes.”
And that is when the most extraordinary part of the evening began. The King began to talk without prodding, this time about his own history, and when I stopped him with thoughtful questions and observations, he began to open up even further. I learned more about the kingdom of Persia during that brief conversation than anyone could possibly imagine. Esther, your advice in this area of conversation proved more valuable than all my months of training. I became privy to things I really wish I did not know. His voice hardly rose above a whisper, and I couldn’t tell if it was from some abiding fear of being overheard or an inbred caution. But his tone helped create a sense of intimacy around the words we shared. He spoke about being raised by strangers, believing that his mother was dead of natural causes, and then being told during his adolescence that she had been ordered murdered by his own father. He described the layers of jealousy and i
ntrigue that existed between him and his brothers, most notably Darius II, the eldest and first in line to the throne, who had hoped to rule like his namesake grandfather.
Upon mentioning that name, he began to weep. And that is when I made my mistake.
I reached out to comfort him, stroked his face, and whispered, “It was not your fault. It was not your fault.”
At once his eyes opened, the tears stopped, and he stared at me.
“What do you mean, not my fault?” he asked suspiciously.
And that is when I realized that I had betrayed knowledge of things unknown to anyone but you and Mordecai. Few in the world knew the truth about Darius’ death.
Inside, my thoughts careened into an avalanche of desperate invention.
“I only meant, Your Majesty—I mean, Artaxerxes—only to soothe your grief. To reassure you that just because you ascended to the throne as a result of blood shed that night, it does not mean you wished it upon anyone.”
My words tumbled over each other and he seemed satisfied, for his expression resumed its previous languid state and his taut muscles relaxed once more. I took note of this heightened sensitivity and realized its danger. Artaxerxes could be like the sea: calm and placid on the surface, but like any other sea, concealing treacherous rocks and shoals. The subjects of ascending to the throne and retaining rulership were clearly dangerous.
I breathed deeply again myself as he began to talk about the frustration of watching long-lost relatives resurface upon his ascension to vie for influence and complicate his life.
Throughout our conversation your name arose often and with great favor. Artaxerxes clearly does think of you as his truest and first mother. I guess you, of all people, would know how to treat an adopted child as a true and loving parent would.
He confessed the awesome strain of satisfying, placating, and defending himself against so many various factions within Persia. The threats to his throne.
At one point he stopped and looked into my eyes again.
“I never thought I would ever share these things with anyone,” he said. “If candor is a result of love, then, Leah, I believe I am falling in love with you.”
I smiled outwardly and trembled inwardly, for I could not forget stories of commoners perishing for their knowledge of such palace intrigues and secrets.
“And I with you, my dear Artaxerxes,” I replied, displaying outward calm in spite of my fears.
Again I experienced that divided, spectatorlike sensation. Was this common? Did Artaxerxes the King say these things to all the concubines? Were these mere words meant to accompany another meaningless night of royal passion?
Despite these misgivings, what frightened me most of all was the growing certainty, deep within me, that his words of affection for me were true!
Yet even that inner spark could not convince me to believe the whispered affirmations. I could live with anything except a broken heart, I knew. I could bear the isolation of the women’s quarters, tolerate the gossip and political backbiting. But to believe I was truly loved and then be ignored—that frightened me. Inwardly I began to harden myself against that possibility, even as outwardly I became more tender. The specter of rejection began to haunt my mind.
We kissed, long and warmly, after which he asked me more about myself. And I told him what was acceptable to tell—of my warm, comfortable upbringing in Susa, my loving parents and one brother. I did not tell him, of course, anything of my Hebrew heritage. Or of the fact that my great-great-grandfather was Jeconiah, the Jewish king and first leader of the Exile, carried as a captive here to this region. Nor of the terror that ransacked my senses when the soldiers seized me by force and whisked me into the palace. Of all the things I withheld from him, the one I felt most keenly at that moment was my familiarity with all things royal because of you, Esther.
Halfway through, I mercifully heard a light snore and allowed myself to fall asleep for a second time.
And then I awoke, as you had described from your own experience, to the slamming open of doors and the whole array of royal aides pouring into the room, oblivious to my presence. I am so glad you told me of this, for without your forewarning, I would have been just as appalled and confused as you were at the sudden end to our intimate tryst.
Furthermore, thanks to your descriptions, I was prepared for the letdown of being escorted back across those huge terraces and returned to the harem. Of course, Jesse and Mordecai awaited me with discreet and respectful inquiries about my evening.
I’m sure I looked as embarrassed as I felt as I hinted to them I might be their next queen. The two deflected glances to each other and shrugged to pass off the comment. Yet I felt my fear suddenly leave me; I knew the truth of what had transpired that night with the King. He loved me, of this I was certain. While my head did fear, my heart felt the truth of what had transpired that night.
So, my beloved Esther, we come to the one thing for which your cherished letter did not prepare me—nor could it have. The arrival of Mordecai on the fourth morning after my night with the King, a stricken and unhealthy pall upon his face. He sat beside me and informed me, in a level and grave voice, that I had been summarily rejected as queen.
The chill of my fear returned like a vengeful flood. I really have no idea what to do, which is why I await your response, my dear Queen Esther . . .
MOSSAD HEADQUARTERS, BAGHDAD—LATER THAT AFTERNOON
Meyer backed up abruptly and knocked over his stool with a clatter.
For a long moment, he simply stood and stared at the last two words of his translation, then back at the Hebrew letters signifying the name and title.
Queen Esther!
His mind began to connect the dots. To run across the name Esther, a derivative of the Mesopotamian goddess Ishtar, could be coincidental, even within the Royal Records. But Queen Esther?
Without moving his gaze from the manuscript, he reached over to the desk’s edge and fumbled for the phone amidst the jumble of papers and personal effects.
He should have seen it coming. Hints at the royal personage to whom the letter was addressed lay scattered throughout the document. But to find these comments, along with references to the Exilarch, ruler of the Jews in exile, on the same page together—it took his breath away.
He tried to calm the heaving of his chest and slow the frantic darting of his eyes but found his shock simply too powerful to suppress. He had to get out of there, he told himself, but without arousing suspicion. He knew that cameras and monitoring devices were everywhere—far more than what was needed to merely protect him. And the multitude of cameras he could detect were only a fraction of the total.
He made himself look away from the two documents on the desk and glanced around him again, as though someone might have sneaked in behind him during the preceding seconds. Frowning, he picked up the phone as casually as he could, yanked off his skullcap, and exited the room through a back door. He returned a moment later carrying a case, into which he slid the documents with a studied casualness, then left for good.
The only observer of his exit was an old street beggar who had taken up permanent residence in the alley. The rag-swathed body did not budge from its grimy crossed-legged position on the ground, but its oddly young eyes locked on to Ari’s immediately, far more alert than an old man’s drunken gaze should have been.
Ari nodded and, after a moment’s flicker of recognition, so did the “beggar.” Ari turned away from the safehouse’s outermost and most cunningly disguised security layer, then launched himself into the street.
A wild blend of car horns, racing engines, and human shouts engulfed him at once. Without expression, the bearded “Osborn” elbowed his way through the Arab crowd to his car, a carefully disheveled Toyota truck, placed the case on the seat, started the engine with a long crank of the key, slammed it into gear, and sped into the streets of southern Baghdad like the proverbial drunken sheikh.
Through the crowded, claustrophobic lanes of the southern Aalam
district he raced, crazily fighting a combination of shock, relief, and panic. He weaved and ducked into a side street, peering anxiously into his rearview mirror to make sure he was not being followed, finally south onto the broad lanes of Yafa Street, then into the lawns of Zawra Park, Baghdad’s largest greenbelt.
There, barely twenty yards out of the cloverleaf that marked the park’s entrance, he saw what he needed. He swerved over and brought the truck to a screeching halt. In a second the door slammed and locked, and he was out, crossing the grass with long strides and holding the phone back up to his ear. He looked around him, saw no one paying any attention, and took a deep breath.
Finally, a place he knew to be safe from electronic eavesdropping—from either side.
He dialed and spoke one word into the phone, low but strong.
For a minute, Osborn’s eyes danced along with the cadence of the beeps and whistles rushing past his ear. Then he began to speak in a breathless rant.
“No, Father—I’m in Baghdad. Everything’s fine. Except—and this is why I’m calling you—I’ve found something big. No, not even that. It’s bigger, it’s the motherlode, a two in one. Both of the pieces we’ve been searching for, praying for, in a single haul.”
He waited while a deep, ponderous voice spoke quickly through the earpiece.
“Yes. You guessed it. I think it’s authentic. It’ll take the lab in Jerusalem to confirm it for certain, and maybe a comparison. All I had was a quick pass with my makeshift infrared.”
He paused and turned around to make sure he was still far from the nearest park stroller.
“That’s right. Hadassah, and the Exilarch bloodline, together. Our guesses could be validated. The Exilarch did start long before Alexander the Great.” He laughed, then sobered quickly. “I told you it was the motherlode. I’m nearly one hundred percent sure. But I’ll have to go to her, to validate them. The time has come. And then you’ll be able to go public, except . . . well, you’ve already gone public. But wait. There’s also a bad side to this. Some very bad news, I’m afraid.”
