by Tessa Afshar
For me, however, each sight was new and awe inspiring. We had entered through the Gate of Xerxes, an imposing portico made of carved limestone. On either side stood two giant statues of winged bulls. I almost fell backwards into the cart trying to see to the top of them. The marble that covered the winding driveway was more luxurious than the floor inside my childhood home. On either side of us majestic cypress trees lined the road. The heady scent of thousands of white and purple hyacinth blossoms made my head spin.
The Gate of Xerxes was the entrance closest to the main royal stables. The eunuch left the cart and donkey in one of the larger stalls housing royal carriages and carts, and we continued our journey on foot.
As we left the marble courtyards and wide limestone staircases rising to stupefying heights, wall friezes gave way to silver, ivory, and ebony carvings; gold, lapis lazuli, and carnelian details covered many surfaces, as if to blind visitors by the overwhelming display of riches at every step. It seemed impossible that human hands could have wrought such luxury—such immensity.
Another wonder that struck me that first day was the lack of foul odors. The whole atmosphere of the palace seemed saturated with perfumes. I learned later that palace engineers had installed covered drainpipes underground to carry sewage away from its grounds.
To any observer that may have caught a glimpse of me, I would have seemed a callow outsider. I doubt I closed my mouth for the length of time it took us to walk from the stables to the women’s quarters.
My guide delivered me to a cramped, windowless room and informed me that I would be sharing my quarters with three other women, also servants of Queen Damaspia, who were currently occupied with their work.
I sank on the carpeted floor and looked about me. Even this small place, out of the way and created for servants, held more luxury than my childhood home. The walls were painted a faint blue and two plain columns stood at each side of the door. Shiny green tiles covered the floor where the carpet ended. Rolled against a wall rested four sets of mattresses and bedding; someone had clearly prepared for my coming.
I was wondering what I was supposed to do next when a woman with curled hair, dressed in crisp linen garments, appeared at my door.
“I am the queen’s senior handmaiden. She has assigned me to welcome you.”
Was I supposed to bow to her? Should I introduce myself? Was she considered my social equal or was I expected to address her as a superior? I felt the weight of my own ignorance crushing me.
My visitor frowned as she examined me from head to foot. Flustered, I scratched the side of my face nervously, hot under such an unflinching evaluation.
“That won’t do.” She knocked my fingers away from my face. “When you come before the queen, there will be no scratching, no fidgeting, no picking, no coughing, no speaking unless you are spoken to. And don’t even think about blowing your nose. Do I make myself clear, scribe?”
That was only the beginning of my training. For eight days I was deluged with more information than my father had poured into me in eight years. And this merely prepared me for my first interview with the queen.
Damaspia, the only lawful wife of King Artaxerxes, was not what I expected. When later I grew more familiar with royal practices, I’d learn to appreciate how understated her court was. She expected few honors, though she was due every form of them.
Not many people were present in her chamber when I was ushered in for my first meeting. I had been bathed so thoroughly I doubt even the angels could smell cleaner. But no amount of soap could hide the coarse fabric of my garment or the rough edges of my manners. If she noticed, she made no mention.
Damaspia was the most beautiful creature I had ever set eyes on. Even clad in a simple long linen garment with no jewelry, she took one’s breath away. Although she was past the first flush of youth, her skin remained taut and her fashionably tall figure retained its willowy charm. Everything about her was narrow; her waist; her nose; her fingers—everything except her lips and eyes, which were both wider than most people’s. Her hair, unlike mine, curled naturally and had been rolled and tucked under with gold combs so that it looked far shorter than it was. The cerulean blue gaze rested on me and she gestured for me to approach.
“So you are my new scribe,” she said, when I straightened from my imperfectly executed bow.
“If Your Majesty pleases.”
“I will tell you what I please. Be honest. Be loyal. Be competent. Do the work I give and do it well, and we shall have no problems, you and I.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
She flicked a hand. “Well, go and do it, then.”
That was the end of my introduction to the queen, though my full training in royal formalities went on for months.
The only time in the palace when I did not feel like I was blundering were the hours I spent in my cramped office, which I shared with two eunuchs, scribes who reported to me. The first day or two they had little to say to me and spent entirely too much time staring at me, the way they would have an exotic animal in a cage. I suppose they had never had to work with a woman before. In time, as they saw that I knew my craft and they could rely on me to provide adequate guidance, they forgot that I was a woman, and treated me as an equal. With them, I need not worry about palace etiquette or social niceties. Our work was our code of conduct. I would squirrel myself in that closet of a chamber as long as I dared, until the queen’s sharp-tongued senior handmaiden found me and dragged me out for more lessons on royal propriety.
There were other things I needed to learn. The king’s household traveled with predictable regularity to different nerve centers of the empire: Susa, Ecbatana, Passargadae, even Babylonia. I came to see more of the world’s wonders than I had ever thought possible. Suddenly I wasn’t a sheltered daughter, hardly leaving home from month to month. I had to learn to be mobile. I had to adjust to traveling and learn to become ambulatory without losing any of my efficiency.
Late at night I would crawl into my chamber, often finding my roommates already asleep. The few times I saw them long enough to converse, I was so impressed by their sense of superiority and their disapproval of my simple appearance that my late hours began to offer more of a relief than an inconvenience.
In spite of its aggravations, I grew accustomed to palace life. Nehemiah’s opinion of me was borne out; I had been made for this work. It came easily to me.
The Persians used few slaves; the majority of their labor force came in the form of paid servants. Each servant’s wages was paid in rations—grain, wine, livestock. Among the vast array of my responsibilities was the need to keep track of every single payment made to each of the queen’s hundreds of workers. I ensured that everyone received fair and timely payment, and that none of the queen’s possessions found its way into someone else’s pockets. As a linguist, an accountant, an administrator, a librarian, and a keeper of records in triplicate, my job had many facets. And I proved adept at every aspect of them. Before one month was done, the queen offered me the position on a permanent basis.
I was twenty. And I was the Queen of Persia’s Senior Scribe.
Once a week, I would meet with the queen herself. Shrewd and well educated, she knew every detail of her far-flung enterprise. The night before every meeting I suffered from stomach pains and nausea. I would not sleep the whole night through no matter how well prepared I was. This anxiety only grew worse with the years, although she was not stingy with her praise.
Once, after a long and complicated meeting, she gave me an exquisite fan in appreciation. “You have been doing well, scribe,” she said. “You have sharp eyes and a keen understanding.”
That night, I sat up filled with fear. I worried that I would lose her good opinion. I thought that eventually she would come to realize that I was not as satisfactory as she had thought. It was as if the more praise she lavished on me, the less confident I grew.
Every accolade became a new high standard I had to maintain. I knew that I could not retain suc
h a standard no matter how hard I strove.
On the one hand, my success was my lifeline. After a childhood of disappointing my father, I had grown into an adulthood that at long last reaped approval. I swallowed that approval with greed; but I found I never grew quite full enough. So on the other hand, my achievements drove me to anxiety. I always feared that I would fail in the end.
Beneath my apparent success, my father’s daughter brooded with fear. She knew better than anyone that if I failed at my work, I had nothing else to offer.
The months melted into years while I remained occupied with my vocation. After three years of service to the queen, the court became my whole life. I was certain—that like my father—I was meant to be a scribe until I grew old. I was certain that I would serve the queen for years to come. I was certain. But I was wrong.
* 449 BC
Chapter Three
The Nineteenth Year of King Artaxerxes’ Reign* Persepolis
I never thought a day would come when almost being devoured by a lion would be the least of my problems.
I had snuck out of the gilded walls of the palace, the normal bustle of the queen’s quarters having become too much for my benumbed mind, and taken refuge on my favorite hill. Even after three years of working for the queen, I had precious few occasions for solitude. I was an oddity in the court, a woman doing a job normally given to eunuchs. To prove to the queen that I was worthy of this unusual privilege, I spent every waking moment at work and allowed myself few opportunities for leisure.
Though I paid the price for the demands of my post with a willing heart, there were moments when I grew desperate for rest. On such days I would slip out for a solitary walk on what I had come to think of as my hill.
Far from being a majestic spot, the hill looked like something God had heaved up as an afterthought—low, squat, and neglected—unworthy of attention in a place as glorious as Persepolis. Perhaps God had molded me from the same dust, for I too was short and round, unimpressive and overlooked.
It was a hot day for that time of year; we were only fifteen days past the Persian New Year, which was celebrated on the first day of spring. Yellow and white narcissus grew in bunches around me, waving in the lazy breeze. Under the warmth of the sun, the tensions of the week began to drain out of me. I had brought a large roll of flat wheat bread, liberally spread with creamy butter and sweet grape jelly, one of my favorite repasts. Munching slowly on my meal, I leaned back against an elbow, considering the merits of a short nap.
The sound of pounding hooves made me snap my half-closed eyes open. The horse, a pure black, thundered across the terrain, heedless of rocks and debris. I could not see the rider’s face, though he was near enough for me to make out the aristocratic linen tunic, the bejeweled belt, the soldier’s bearing.
I shot up with an abrupt lack of grace, realizing that he was on a collision path with me. He saw me and slowed his horse, but continued to trot until he was almost on top of me.
Having lived for years in the palaces of the king of Persia had taught me to recognize rank. I bowed and stood again to study him with silent curiosity.
His dark hair, though long and waved in the fashion of the court, was not bewigged or over-coiffed. Eyes the color of the lush forests of Ecbatana stared at me through a ring of thick lashes. I had never seen a man with such disconcerting beauty.
“I take it you haven’t seen a lion?” he asked.
For a moment I was struck dumb. Speaking to young, handsome noblemen was not a common occurrence in my world. But being faced with one who began his conversation with such an unusual—one might even say ridiculous—question, was downright confounding. Wild animals were routinely imported for royal hunts, but they were kept in well-maintained hunting grounds and were not allowed to roam the countryside, terrorizing the natives.
“Have you lost one, my lord?” I asked, trying not to smirk.
One dark eyebrow arched a fraction. “In a manner of speaking.”
“They generally don’t come here,” I said, and refrained from adding that he should try the royal hunting grounds as most sane men would.
“The hunt started in the royal enclosure,” he said, as though reading my thoughts. “Then the beast seemed to vanish into air. Everyone else is still in the park looking for him. But I followed his tracks here.”
I looked about me casually, not worried that I might come across an actual lion. “I’ve seen no sign of him.”
He dismounted and began to examine the ground with minute attention. Straightening, he shook the dust off his hands. “Well, he was here, and not too long ago.”
Not wanting to sound skeptical of his hunting prowess, I held my peace. We stood in silence surveying the landscape, I in one direction and he in another.
Suddenly he hissed, “Don’t move!”
I froze at the urgency in his tone. My mouth grew dry as with perfect incomprehension I saw him reach for his bow and arrow. What was happening? Was he planning to shoot me? Persian men were legendary for the accuracy of their marksmanship. He could have skewered me with ease from ten times this distance; this close, he was not likely to miss if he wished me dead.
“Don’t move,” he said again, his voice a gentle whisper.
A soft rustle low to the ground behind me caused me to hold my breath. For the first time I began to believe that a lion had truly managed to get itself loose from the well-guarded hunting grounds, which did not make my situation any more secure. Instead of being murdered by a sharpshooting courtier, I was about to become the noonday meal of a ferocious animal.
Too close behind me I heard a roar so fierce, I almost toppled over with terror. How I managed to hold still, I shall never know, but it saved my life. Within a moment the whoosh of an arrow passed within a finger’s breadth of my cheek and then I heard another roar followed by a crash. The first arrow had barely been loosed when the rider had a second notched into his bow.
Frozen to the spot, I stayed unmoving, even when he lowered his weapon, indicating that the danger was past.
“I found my lion.” In my frazzled state I managed to notice that his voice remained cool as he spoke, as if he had pet a kitten rather than confronted a menacing feline.
“How fortuitous for me,” I said through dry lips.
“Don’t you want to see him?”
For a moment I could not find my voice; fighting nausea, I staggered to the ground. Could he not tell that I was too busy having an attack of the heart to admire his skill?
He hunkered down and studied me. This close I saw that the symmetry of his face was even more stunning than I first had thought, magnified by the unusual contrast between his bright green eyes and olive skin. In those unusual eyes I was surprised to find kindness.
“I thought you very brave. You hardly flinched.”
“That’s because I didn’t believe there was a lion behind me,” I blurted.
He laughed, revealing a white smile marred only by the overlap of one crooked tooth. The sight of that blemish brought me relief somehow. It made him more human.
“You thought I had been in the sun too long.”
“I thought you had a gourd for a brain and the skills of a sparrow in tracking game.” Almost being killed had clearly affected my sanity. Even in the best of times I had a tendency to speak with unwise forthrightness, but this was ridiculous. I covered my mouth with my hand.
He stood with a slow flexing of athletic limbs. I noticed to my relief that his smile did not fade. “You are very forward for a servant.”
I forced myself to my feet. “I beg your pardon, my lord.”
It was unwise to offend the nobility, and I had managed to do it with stupendous success. Hoping to cover my rudeness by some empty flattery, I put on my best fawning expression and said, “You are an extraordinary hunter.” Even to myself I sounded insincere.
His smile disappeared. It was like seeing a mask settle over his face. His cold expression confused me. He had been welcoming and kind when I h
ad been offensive. But in the face of my compliments, he acted with icy disgust, as though I had soiled his shining shoes.
Perceiving the change and concerned that I had indeed antagonized him, I turned around to find more fodder for my desperate praise. The sight of the massive carcass not five steps behind me brought the gears of my mind to a crashing halt. My vacuous comments turned into sincerity. “You saved my life,” I said with a catch in my throat. “It would have killed me if not for you.”
“How kind of you to notice.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
I tried again. “I am grateful for your marvelous skills, my lord.”
He flicked a hand as though swatting at a fly. “This flattery will avail you nothing, and it only bores me.”
“But I am sincere!”
“Of course. Now that we have established your pure motives perhaps you would be so kind as to offer me your assistance?”
I finally understood that while he had not cared about my earlier rudeness, he found my flattery distasteful. I hadn’t offended him by comparing him to a sparrow; he was annoyed that I had called him a great hunter in order to coax his favor. That one brief indiscretion had lost me his respect.
I had started my words with flattery; he was right to suspect me of it. However, I could not have been more sincere once I saw how close to death I had come.
He was a stranger to me; even his name remained a mystery. Why should I care for his opinion of me? Yet care, I did.
It was clear that he had no patience for my explanations. Swallowing my pride, I asked, “How may I help, my lord?”
“Send me two guards from the palace. I cannot carry this beast down by myself.”
I bowed, one hand on my heart. “As you command. And, my lord? I do thank you for saving my life. It may not seem like much to you, but it is all I have.”
He turned his back to examine his prey. “You will not last long in Persepolis with that mouth,” he predicted with cool detachment, and I knew myself dismissed. For a moment longer I tarried there, staring at that broad back. Something in me—some strange unknown longing—stirred at the sight. Illogically, my heart constricted at the knowledge that this would be the last time I would ever see him.
