Hadassah

by Tommy Tenney

  I began working on my disguise with Rachel hours before sunset on the banquet’s last evening. Mordecai returned home for a quick bath, then waited for me and watched incredulously while my transformation took place. Shaking his head, he playfully threatened to change his mind if I came out looking too much like a boy. Then, as Rachel’s work progressed, he lamented my emerging as too pretty a boy. He threw up his hands in mock outrage at the thought of being considered a lover in the Greek fashion of which he had heard whispered.

  Finally, sent on our way with several grudging Jewish blessings from Rachel, we left our gate and were immediately swept into the stream of revelers making their way toward the Palace.

  I felt like I had been transported to heaven. The setting sun cast colors of fire against the horizon, and a pleasant hum rose from the crowd. Yet it seemed the volume and thickness of its composition rose with every passing step. By the time we reached the gryphon statues at the portico, the slow current had become a flood. Mordecai reached out and grasped my hand in a grip so tight I almost felt my knuckles were breaking. Unlike on my previous trip, there was no need to fight the tide to reach my destination. Today we were carried along whether we liked it or not. The massive arch I had admired on my previous adventure now swept past me like an afterthought. The swiftness of its passage did not keep me from looking up, admiring its soaring grandeur and imagining that I was all alone—some favored guest of Persia entering on a royal summons, clad in exotic robes and jewels.

  My fixation did not last long. The Palace’s entrance was truly only the beginning of its wonders. I heard a curious sound beneath me and looked down to see that my feet were treading on marble of the most intricate gold-veined pattern. Looking beyond my own moving legs and feet, I saw a ground covered with this gorgeous stone. All about us lay thick, green foliage and parks ringed by flowers of violet, fuchsia, crimson and pink. The royal gardens, I remembered with a dizzy sensation. In a culture obsessed with cultivating the perfect household garden, those of the Royal Palace were legendary as the finest in all the land.

  The crowd suddenly parted around a pool bluer and longer than any body of water I had ever beheld. Its surface seemed to reflect the azure blue of the desert sky as flawlessly as glass. At broad intervals along its sides stood marble benches lined with perfectly colored statues of beautiful young women. Real guards stood at attention between the benches, nearly as still as their stone counterparts.

  “Royal concubines,” Mordecai whispered.

  I frowned, startled, and realized what he’d meant—one second after, one of the female statues actually moved. The figures were real women, dressed in silk robes that shimmered in the sun. I blanched, feeling suddenly quite plain, awkward and poorly dressed even for a boy.

  Then the whole scene lurched and stumbled, almost pitching me onto my face. I fought to regain my footing and looked up again, for the source of my predicament was Mordecai himself, yanking me forward with the impatience of someone dragging a toddler to his bath.

  One moment later a mountainous stone arch crowded out the sun. We were inside the King’s Gate—if such an enormity could even be called “inside.” I was used to low ceilings and a sense of warm confinement. Here was a cool space as tall as a dozen rooms. Susa’s own Jewish synagogue now seemed a dim hulk compared to this immensity. I blinked and squinted, craned my neck and walked on. I wondered if I should even try to make a visual inventory of what I was seeing—the richness of detail was too much to absorb, at least at this brisk pace. My senses felt filled to overflowing.

  I heard Mordecai’s voice whisper to me, low and conspiratorial. “Try not to seem too awestruck,” he said. “It makes you stand out.”

  I winced at my own childishness and tried to relax my face into a mixture of nonchalance and faint amusement. I’m sure now, reflecting back, that my new expression was only slightly less ridiculous than the former; such is a youth’s sense of nuance. But I should be more charitable to my former self. After the years of confinement, this was an almost shocking immersion in the outside world, and I was trying my best.

  Suddenly we were outside again, and the mass of walking humanity parted around a huge marble building. “The inner court,” Mordecai said, pointing. “That’s where the King’s throne is located. Where he transacts his business and meets with his advisers. Our destination”—and at that he pointed upward, for the third edifice stood as tall as a mountain—“is there. The Central Hall.”

  17

  I glanced up, for we were passing between a row of columns so tall and massive I could have sworn their summits were piercing the sky. At the foot of each one a soldier stood as motionless as if he were part of the carving. At once I winced and recoiled, for a river of western sunlight was gleaming through the columns and glinting off the blade in one sentry’s grip. I fought back a rush of memories from that long-ago night, squared my shoulders and looked onward with a sense of defiance.

  Had only one of these Palace columns stood before me, I could have spent an hour arching my neck backward to marvel at its height, its intricate carvings and the gracefully curved bulge midway up. But dozens of these monoliths now towered against my horizon in row after orderly row. I tried to count and stopped at the number forty, my mind drenched in awe, with several more rows to go. The hall’s breathtaking expanse and majesty made human scale seem antlike. I saw figures walking around the outermost columns and realized I could not throw a stone even half the distance.

  Between the nearest of these stone giants hung vast tapestries the size of houses along purple cords, woven in hues of white and violet and fastened between silver rings on which glinted the setting sun. Their rich hues seemed to shimmer like liquid in the torchlight. Something sparkled at me from below, causing me to look down and gasp: the floor now consisted of a fine mosaic inlaid with precious stones and gems!

  I looked at Mordecai, who met my gaping expression with a smile and a little shake of his head. I immediately tried to adapt a more natural face. We moved forward slowly. The crowds ahead were beginning to disperse, for on every side stood tables piled high with food in more varieties than I even knew existed. I saw a row of braised geese, baked ducks of every size and form and whole-baked chickens whose shapes were eroding beneath the guests’ unceasing fingers. I fought back my retching reflex at the sight of an entire pig, its body baked brown and half eaten, upon another table. Several other fowl and beasts of unknown species lay in various stages of being devoured by the masses.

  On another table, through a throng, I could make out row after row of golden goblets, every row a different height and shape, filled with what I could only presume was wine. A phalanx of stabbing hands was rapidly emptying the table.

  I looked away for a moment and tried to find a normal sight upon which to rest my gaze. My ears chose this as their own occasion to assault me with not one but countless sources of tumult. This definitely had the look and sound of a celebration that had been going for a while. Streams of human chatter and shouting seemed to roll their way toward me from wholly separate parts of the building.

  Then, suddenly, Mordecai and I stopped, and through the shoulders ahead of me I could glimpse the reason why. We had reached the end. The floor ahead suddenly vaulted upward and culminated in a platform crowning steps lined with more purple tapestries anchored by golden rods. Smaller columns, themselves tall enough to support the highest building I had ever seen until that day, held more hangings upon the landing. Large palm fronds waved slowly up and down over a gathering of gold-rimmed couches. And atop the platform stood the greatest sight of all: the King and his entourage, in clothes gleaming so brightly I wanted to shade my eyes.

  Which one is the King? As I could not make out a throne, discerning him from the array of revelers proved difficult. Then I saw a formation of soldiers, scimitars drawn in their fists, and traced their glances to an apex. And there, more golden than any of the sights I had seen thus far, lounged a man around whom the light seemed to glow with an
unearthly radiance. I made out broad shoulders, dark hair and a beard that had clearly been dipped in some sort of crystalline glitter. He wore a golden robe that draped not only beside him but for yards on either side. It seemed to have been carved of solid gold, until he moved and the whole wonder folded and moved with him.

  A commotion broke out among the guests, and a large drunken man broke away from the assembly and stumbled onto the bottom step. He jerked his goblet high into the air, spilling its contents over himself, and yelled, “To His Majesty’s health!”

  The King glanced over and smiled, and the celebrants around me began to raise their own rejoinder to the toast. But then the man, seeing the favorable reaction from Xerxes, let out a guttural shout and began to scramble drunkenly up the steps.

  I heard Mordecai gasp loudly at my side.

  And then I saw why. Two royal guards stepped deftly over. The soldier nearest the drunken sop swung his axe blade far behind him and then forward again in a savage slicing motion. It was unclear which happened first: the head falling from the intruder’s shoulders and the torrent of blood that erupted from the falling torso or the great communal moan that rose from the guests. The head bounced down the steps with discernible sound in the sudden stillness, spewing bright blood all over the purple rugs, then clearing a swath into the crowd when the gruesome object struck the floor and rolled a few cubits farther.

  From his perch, the King shook his head with a rueful smile of mock disappointment at the man’s folly. Then he held up his goblet as if to say, Too bad—it seems we ruined a nice toast. A eunuch rushed over to him with a riatin from which to refill the goblet.

  At once a sea of goblets rose around me, along with the deep clamor of a thousand male voices in unison, shouting out a single word: “Xerxes!” And a thousand goblets tilted to pour wine into a thousand throats—all except mine. I was trying not to vomit from combined disgust and sheer panic. Once again, my own private nightmare came rushing back to me.

  Mordecai leaned sideways toward me, more unobtrusive than ever. “It is an offense punished by death to approach the King without his bidding,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Unless he lowers his scepter or gives some sign of his interest in the person, the sentence is immediate.”

  His private commentary was interrupted by the hasty arrival of two Palace aides who dragged the dead body away and ran back for the severed head and a quick swab of the floor with sea sponges. Then Mordecai glanced up, and I followed his gaze. The King had summoned a group of men from the platform with an imperious wave of his arm. The men had arisen and gathered around the royal person. Noise in the room seemed to diminish somewhat as the revelers sensed that a subject of some importance was being broached.

  “These are the royal eunuchs,” Mordecai whispered to me. “Hadassah, do you know what a eunuch is?”

  I nodded his way in the affirmative, only slightly lying. I had a vague notion of men against whom the ultimate affront had been committed.

  “These are the special ones,” he continued. “The only ones allowed to move freely between the worlds of male and female. Some say they’re the most influential persons in the kingdom—even though they’re little more than slaves.”

  Several moments of intense discussion followed upon the dais, its topic known only to this intimate circle—at least for the moment. Whatever the eunuchs’ suggestion, it found favor, for the King finally raised his goblet again and shouted something that I could not discern until it was repeated by the crowd.

  “Vashti!” went the echo.

  The King threw back his head, appearing to laugh, and the cry rose again, louder this time.

  “Vashti!”

  Vashti was the name of Xerxes’ queen. Legend had it she was the most beautiful woman in the world—and Mordecai had never said anything to dispel the notion. She also was of royal lineage, giving her the additional rank of Royal Consort.

  A cluster of men scurried down the steps and made a human wave part before them. The dispersal came within a few guests of where I stood, and I saw them closely. They were middle-aged men, arrayed in so much gleaming filigree that I did not know if they were staggering from the drunkenness that clearly flushed their faces, the weight of their clothing or both. One of them raised another goblet from his side and shouted her name again, as though trying to incite the crowd. They seemed to need little inducement, for soon the chant rose, “Vashti! Vashti! Vashti!” It showed no signs of diminishing.

  Mordecai shot a glance of disgust my way and shook his head. He moved closer and whispered, “I told you this was no place for a beautiful young woman.”

  “Why are they so anxious to see her?”

  “It’s not just to see her, young one. It’s to see her. Understand?”

  I shook my head.

  He sighed deeply and shook his head. Apparently he had not wanted to elaborate. “They’ll want Vashti to disrobe and parade her nakedness for the crowd. She has been hosting her own banquet for the wives and concubines of the King’s officials.”

  I suddenly realized that my mouth had gone completely dry, a sign of the nervousness and shock I was laboring against. I tipped my face upward toward Mordecai and asked him where I could find some water. He shook his head and motioned toward the wine table. I had never tasted the fermented fruit of the vine. He had expressly forbidden it. “It’s all there is,” he said, shrugging apologetically. He stepped forward with me as I struggled to lift the heavy goblet to my lips. What flowed down my throat was at once entrancing and painful. Even as it burned, I felt my head swim in a delightful way, and a rich, musky aroma overwhelmed my senses.

  I lowered the goblet and shook my head with my eyes suddenly as wide as they had been all evening. Then I looked around me in alarm, realizing that I had exhibited a most unmasculine reaction. Sure enough, three large-bellied, tall, middle-aged men began to laugh heartily at my bewilderment.

  “How old are you, son?” the closest one bellowed to me.

  I started to answer, but a quick movement from Mordecai reminded me of my constant need for silence. As poor as my disguise was, my fledgling attempts at vocally imitating a boy were far worse. So I feigned a knowing chuckle and pointed at my throat, as if some oral malady were responsible for my reaction to the wine.

  I turned from the men and stepped away, only to be knocked back by a violent shove—I barely found my footing in time to look up at the one who had struck me. The man was walking as fast as one can without actually running. I immediately recognized him as one of the seven who had gone out to fetch Vashti only moments before. He no longer seemed drunk; in fact, it seemed like every nerve in his body was quivering from some sort of savage inward fright.

  “Vashti! Vashti!” several of the men began again upon the sight of him. But the man paid no heed to anyone around him. He bounded up the steps toward the King. The royal guards stepped forward for a cursory reexamination of his face, then parted their axes and let him enter.

  Now, dear reader, it is obvious to you that I was not upon the platform at this moment, so I was not privy to the strained conversation that took place. However, having served as Queen of Persia for a number of years, I know my history, and I can tell you with utter confidence what was said next and the subsequent events. Of course, it is also a matter of well-recounted public record, so my telling will be of little surprise to you, I am sure.

  18

  Harbona of Lydia, the unfortunate eunuch selected to return with the obviously bad news, had already voided his bladder into his clothes by the time he reached the top of those velvet stairs, for he knew that his King was at once an expansive and a capricious host who did not suffer negative tidings gladly. He no doubt silently thanked his Persian god Ahura for the layers of robes he had worn in addition to his gold filigree, then proceeded to choose his words with the supreme effort of not bursting into tears, relieving himself further or both.

  Watching him, I noticed at once the strangely feminine tilt of his head, the lilt i
n his high voice, his soft skin. This conversation was recounted to me thus:

  “My King, there has been a most disconcerting turn of events, one which my fellow servants and I have labored mightily to reverse.”

  “Speak plainly, my friend. How dire can it be?” Xerxes was standing on the dais at this time, towering over Harbona.

  “Well, your Majesty, Queen Vashti refuses to come.”

  There was a pause. The King’s jaw muscles churned, and his facial complexion turned the color of a ripening apple. “You jest.” But a glance at the face before him confirmed the truth.

  “She also refuses to give a reason, your Majesty. But even after lengthy pleas and warnings from myself and my two fellow emissaries, she maintained her refusal.”

  The King grew very still, and apart from the hue of his face, he gave no further clue as to his emotions. Then he turned away and stumbled toward the center group of couches.

  “The witch turned me down,” he muttered. Only a few heard this, but I learned of it later.

  The communal gasp that came from among the King’s closest advisers no longer reclining upon their respective pillows held a portent of death. These courtiers were deeply schooled in all matters of law and protocol, and their main function was to keep His Majesty constantly informed on these matters. “According to law,” the King asked in a halting yet deep voice, “what is to be done with Queen Vashti for not obeying the command of King Xerxes delivered by the eunuchs?”

  Memucan, the King’s Master of the Audiences, rose shakily to deliver his opinion. “Queen Vashti has wronged not only your Majesty but also all the princes and all the citizens of your Majesty’s provinces,” he began slowly, but his words and tone gained strength as he continued. “For Queen Vashti’s conduct will become known to all women and cause them to look with contempt upon their husbands and say, ‘King Xerxes commanded Queen Vashti to come into his presence, but she did not come!’ And today, all the women of Persia and Media who hear of the Queen’s conduct will speak in the same manner to all the King’s princes, even to every husband in the land, which will result in great contempt and anger.”