by Tommy Tenney
Or maybe the dying gasp of his own aspirations.
The sonic wound reverberated through his assembly like a thunderclap; generals and high-born civilians alike recoiled and tried to stifle their own gasps by covering their mouths.
And their sounds soon turned to moans, for the worst had only begun. The wounded Persian ships not only floundered, tossing dozens of elite fighting men into the water like swarms of tadpoles, but their useless hulks now began to block the narrow canal. The ships behind them soon began to run aground and collide into one another!
I learned later that this was among the first times the hardened rams had been used in naval battles. The rather constricted area through which the Persian ships had to sail became a noose as the suicidal attacks by the Greeks decimated Xerxes’ fleet.
Xerxes stood and shook his head, trying to forestall the moment when his mind absorbed just what was taking place before him. “No. No. Mardonius, tell me this is not happening.”
Mardonius did not answer. He stood scowling, with his hands on his hips. Several of the concubines brought along for the trip had wilted, physically bowled over by what was taking place.
It only grew worse. The entire Persian fleet had acquired a speed of its own entering the strait, and so the great bottleneck continued. Ship after ship plowed into the one before it—tossing men and weapons overboard like wrecks in a hurricane. Meanwhile, the Greek boats continued to speed into the melee with a disregard for their own safety, which had it been exhibited by his own captains, Xerxes would certainly have deemed heroic.
The hillsides above the water’s edge now filled with Spartan swordsmen, Greece’s most skilled soldiers, along with archers, and even from this height, he could see the water turn red with Persian blood. Greek soldiers were actually leaping from the deck of one ruined Persian ship to another, killing their Persian enemies at full stride. His men were being slaughtered wholesale before his very eyes.
He turned to Mardonius. “Are we going to lose?” he asked in a voice that sounded to him like death itself.
The general answered without turning from his watch. “We already have, your Majesty.”
41
I will never forget the day, or the moment, when poor Memucan entered with his skin the color of cinders and his face a mask of numb disbelief. He seemed a decade older than when I had seen him last, just an hour before. I was finishing the noon meal with two of my handmaidens, and we had just been reminiscing about the seemingly long-ago candidate days. I stopped in midsentence the instant I saw him.
He sat down on a divan next to me and placed a smooth hand upon mine. “I have some bad news, your Highness. Do you wish to hear it with your companions at your side?”
I nodded silently as my food suddenly soured in my stomach.
“Now, do not fear the worst, ma’am. His Majesty is perfectly safe. You can rest assured on that score. However—“ and on that word he paused and drew a tremulous breath—“our armies have suffered a terrible defeat. The Greeks have withstood us.”
“But I thought we had just sacked Athens, burned the Acropolis! I thought the war was over!”
“I thought as much myself, your Highness. However, it appears that His Majesty attempted to pursue and wipe out the Athenian refugees, and our navy was ambushed in the process. They suffered a terrible defeat and are unable to resupply the army. His Majesty is en route back home to Susa as we speak, for our navy can no longer replenish the troops. I do not know more than that, dear Queen Esther.”
He bowed and rose to leave, but I caught his hand and pulled him back beside me. I needed a wise and experienced presence beside me just then. I did not let him, or my handmaidens, leave me until I had fallen into bed and begun a long night of weeping and wrestling with fears that would not stop tumbling over each other in my mind.
What is Xerxes’ future as King? And by extension, mine as Queen? Is Persia in danger of being toppled or conquered by a rising power? Will the unsavory influences rising in the Palace during Xerxes’ absence now feel emboldened to show themselves and challenge his throne? How much can befall a politically weakened King like this one, not to mention his new, commoner Queen?
After hours of restless questions, I once again saw Mordecai’s face and thought to pray. I wish I could tell you I left it all in G-d’s hands, but at least I finally fell asleep.
Unfortunately, the defeat at Salamis was just an omen of the ill tidings to come. One of the few men to distinguish himself during Xerxes’ Greek campaign was the satrap of Negev, Haman the Agagite. Time and time again his advice on how to properly round up and execute civilian populations, as well as strike terror into the Greek ranks in general, had proven absolutely essential. Furthermore, the King soon learned that his newest governor was also one of his wealthiest. Even after decades of marauding, his predatory bands had never stopped raiding caravans all over the Negev, and their haul had now grown prodigious.
As a result, while the Persian army and Xerxes’ entourage made their slow and despondent way home, the truth was that Haman actually possessed nearly as much wealth as the King himself.
Neither man knew it at the time. All they knew was that Haman currently ranked as one of the fastest rising stars in the whole Empire. And Haman no doubt realized that now was the time for him to call in his favors.
News of the defeat struck Susa like a death in the communal family. An eerie stillness fell over both the Palace and the city itself. I could feel it when merely leaving my quarters; the hallways seemed to be covered by some gray blanket that swallowed all sound, all life, all enthusiasm.
Yet by the time the Persian army returned to Susa, its calamity at Salamis had been given the proper political interpretation as both a heroic survival from treacherous Greek tactics and a righteous stand against the enemy’s defilement of the rules of war. Far from erasing the sour taste of defeat, the revision of history merely took the worst of the sting from Xerxes’ return and at least allowed a disheartened cheer to the returning men.
All the Crown needed now to complete the scenario was a good scapegoat.
As for Haman, it took him only a day to realize he had come back to a far different Susa than he had left. His departure four years before had been a highly calculated risk—with his plot against the King only freshly foiled, his co-conspirators still displayed on the logs of their gallows, and he not knowing how much information they had divulged before their executions. Leaving for war alongside the King, he had gambled that his role at the heart of the coup attempt was still unknown. And he had won. This, of course, we did not know at the time.
Furthermore, the capital of old had been a jubilant launching point for what promised to be a historic and triumphant military campaign. Now the King was diminished and cowed, and the entire picture had altered.
One thing Haman knew for sure. Xerxes’ impulsive behavior on the battlefield had cost Persia the war, and the Amalekite must have felt more certain than ever of his chances for an overthrow. To put it mildly, he told his lieutenants in his sumptuous tent, Xerxes was a fool. A man like that did not deserve to stay king, let alone possess the acumen to stay in power. It would be a stroll through the poppy fields to pick off this weakened king. Maybe he’d even to take this Queen for himself. . . .
In fact, Haman had already set the stage for his next move. His own private army had galloped into Susa at the rear of Persia’s downbeat ranks. Mordecai discreetly joined me, and we had watched the ragtag procession from the top of the King’s Gate. All of a sudden, a band of horsemen arrived, completely unlike the soldiers who had preceded them. Their faces were taut and determined, their mounts of a different breed and a different gait than all the others. They didn’t appear weakened or disheartened, as the regular royal troops had. They cheered and waved their swords about them as though they had won and were receiving their triumphant entry.
And then we both saw their backs—the symbol of the broken cross.
A foul wind blew through me as if
I were made of straw. I reeled back, took a deep breath, and burrowed my fingernails into Mordecai’s arm. He did not notice the pain, for he was reacting as spectacularly as I, standing as though made of stone. I was immediately in tears; yet because I was standing atop a reviewing post and knew others were watching me, I tried my best to rein in my emotions.
But I could not help it. Every terror that had ever beset my childhood had just returned tenfold.
The faithful Memucan, on whom had fallen the onerous task of reporting every piece of bad news since Xerxes’ coronation, now bore the awful burden of telling a defeated King that he was also depleted of his wealth. The conversation did not go well. I was not in the room when Memucan delivered his dark report, but I was nearby, and I heard Xerxes’ shouts clearly. How could the King’s most trusted advisor allow this to happen? How could he have failed to stanch the flow, without even warning the innocent monarch of what was happening?
I could not make out Memucan’s response, but I can imagine his rightful riposte—that he was not the cause, nor Susa the site, of the financial hemorrhage. Indeed, it was Xerxes’ foolhardy military jaunt and the extravagance of his own demands that had caused the losses. But the defeated King, the spoiler of Persian invincibility, wanted to hear no such thing.
Memucan was ejected from Xerxes’ presence with shouts and thrown shoes, plates and even a piece of silverware or two. Knowing the King, I am surprised the poor man left with his life, although Xerxes’ angst was only momentarily directed at the loyal Memucan.
As for my reunion with the King? I am sorry to say that it took several days to happen, for Xerxes was preoccupied and angry in those first few days, far too distracted to entertain my joy at his return. Beyond that, I am also sorry to say, I had heard rumors that he had brought along a contingent of his favorite concubines on the trip. (Not exactly my favorite aspect of royal life.) I waved at him from a high balcony, and he waved back with a smile, but that was all.
And once again, I allowed the worst of my fears to overcome me. Today, I am certain that he actually waited to see me because he wanted nothing to intrude on the joy of our being together again. He was indeed assailed by a hundred pressing issues upon his return, and he hardly slept for his first three days back. But I once again began to question both his love for me and my continued viability as Queen.
Finally, on the night of the third day, he called for me. And the moment I entered the bedchamber and he turned around to meet my eye, it was as though no time had elapsed at all since our last night together. His face brightened and a broad though slightly weary smile creased his features; he held out his arms and braced himself, for I was running toward him from the first moment our eyes met. I leaped into his arms and thankfully the momentum forced us backward and onto the bed, not collapsing in an undignified heap on the floor.
Now, I know it may seem silly or incredibly naïve of me to be so in love with a man who had just deserted me for four years and who had generally behaved like a capricious maniac the whole time he was gone. But you must realize this: sometimes what might seem capricious to you and me is wisdom for a king. I was forced to realize early on that Xerxes knew more than I did about kingdoms, authority and the seemingly irrational requirements of staying in power. So I worked very hard not to question his decisions—but to love him.
And you must know—it was as if G-d had given me a mad love for the man. An irrational one, perhaps, but undeniable nevertheless.
He muttered, “I can’t believe how much I missed you,” and I believed him, for better or worse. And we spent the next two hours delightedly retracing the intimate territory that his absence had denied us for so many nights.
42
It started with a knock on the door.
Xerxes bolted upright at the sound, his face flooded with a mixture of rage and apprehension. “Ignore it,” he whispered to me with a dismissive gesture toward the sound.
But the knocking continued; in fact, it grew louder with every passing second. I recoiled inside, for I did not want this glorious reunion tainted by the memory of seeing someone beheaded—which appeared to be this ignorant interloper’s upcoming fate. No one interrupted times between the royal couple; not even the Master of the Audiences, who could approach Xerxes when no one else could.
I saw Xerxes glance around for some sort of weapon or projectile to use. His eye settled on the sword lying to one side of the bed, where he had undressed. He walked over and brandished the weapon, then turned for the door.
“What?” he shouted with venom toward the unfortunate one on the other side of the door.
The door opened slowly. I winced, preparing for the worst. Then I hazarded a glance, and my eyes widened once, then again.
Jesse stood in the doorway, his face the whiteness of marble. He advanced more tentatively than any male I had ever seen in my life. He did not so much as look my way; he kept his eyes aimed straight at his feet in a terrified sign of submission.
“Your Majesty, I beg your forgiveness for this most importune intrusion. And I implore you to listen to my news before you decide on taking my life. It is my wish only to bring you grave tidings that your Majesty should know at the very soonest opportunity.”
The sword lowered. Xerxes glared at him expectantly.
“What is it now, eunuch?”
“Your Majesty, it is my deepest sorrow to inform you that Master of the Audiences Memucan has been murdered.”
I did not see Xerxes’ initial reaction, for my own eyes shut themselves in shock and sorrow. At the same time, understanding settled over me—as Memucan’s chief aide, Hathach was the logical choice to deliver this news.
Within a split second, a loud clatter filled the room. Xerxes had dropped his sword, and he stood motionless, incapable of further movement. He fell to his knees, and I rushed to his side. Xerxes neither embraced my coming nor shrugged me off; he was too overwhelmed to react at all. The next thing to emerge from his mouth sounded like singing, so melodic was his lament.
“Nooooooo . . .”
And that is when I caught him, about to pitch over sideways. He swayed in my arms for a moment, then finally regained his composure.
“Have the murderers been captured? Do we have any idea who did it?”
Jesse shook his head. I then thought I saw him glance toward me from the corners of his eyes. “No, your Majesty,” he answered. “No one has any idea.”
Xerxes swore under his breath and buried his face in my neck.
What we learned later was this: while we all were sleeping, several men slipped through the building’s darkest shadows and into Memucan’s quarters. In much the same manner as Vashti had been killed, the loyal advisor was stabbed repeatedly in the chest; then he rose in his bed only to have his screams stifled by strong hands and a tightly pulled strip of fabric. None of the other occupants of the house heard a thing.
Eventually, I knew that these men had ridden into Susa that very week with the returning troops, and I knew who their leader was. I also knew their murderous legacy stretching back decades, for the source of my knowledge was a twisted cross appearing on an errant cloak accidentally dropped during the grisly assignment. It was many weeks before I learned of this item, but I immediately knew how this terrible thing had occurred and who had ordered it.
Haman the Agagite did not even wait for Memucan to be buried before presenting himself to the King. He had, after all, just spent four years at the monarch’s side and distinguished himself in Xerxes’ military service. Haman was plausibly as close to a friend as Xerxes could ever have. He had worked hard to position himself as first among the Princes of the Faces.
But Haman’s next step had nothing to do with soldiering. Since Memucan had been the man who managed Xerxes’ schedule, and because approaching the King uninvited meant risking instant execution, Haman sent an initial letter instead. In the missive he offered his services as the new Master of the Audiences. He was now wealthy beyond measure, and he wanted to “give bac
k” to the Empire.
Xerxes did have a few misgivings about Haman, since his chief specialty seemed to be robbing and pillaging innocent people, but he accepted his offer nevertheless. Haman had been the only Persian to distinguish himself on the battlefield. His ruthless tactics had served Xerxes well, and the King now felt that he owed the Agagite. So, bypassing a host of Palace functionaries who had jockeyed over the post for decades, as well as the fact that usually this position was held by a eunuch, he quickly named Haman the Agagite his new Master of the Audiences.
As I may have mentioned before, this made Haman essentially the second most powerful man in the Empire. The Master of the Audiences controlled the Immortals, the thousand-man bodyguard force that camped perpetually in the outer courtyards. He also had complete sway over the King’s schedule, able to lock out with complete impunity anyone whom he found unworthy of Xerxes’ time. He alone could interrupt and enter the King’s presence at any point—except for private meals with the Queen and the King’s evening trysts. That was infinitely more than could be done by average citizens, who would surely pay with their lives for an impromptu approach to the sovereign.
And all the promotion had cost Haman was direct supervision of his band of thugs. That task he duly relegated to his ten sons, each of whom was already more bloodthirsty than he had ever been.
Perhaps this next is so striking because Memucan had occupied his post for so long and with such grace and ease, but you never saw a man as thoroughly transformed by a new appointment as Haman. He seemed to grow a cubit from the moment Xerxes laid the medal of the appointment over his neck. In fact, when he rose from the brief commissioning ceremony, which was attended by all high-ranking Palace bureaucrats, he turned his face to the assembled crowd with an expression that can only be described as gloating. In any event, a discernible aura seemed to emanate from the man, and his posture changed demonstrably.
