Game of Queens

by India Edghill

  Now I understood what Haman truly was: a monster. Oh, not because he killed an unfaithful wife—any man might do as much. Isqanqur would not hesitate in the same circumstance. Had Haman caught his wife with her lover and slain her in hot rage, or had he learned of her betrayal and executed her in cold anger, he would have done no more than was his right.

  But to tell her the day and time of her execution was to be in seven years? To let her live, and raise her bastard child; to treat her to all outward appearances as a pampered wife, and only then draw the blade across her throat? That was cruelty of no mean order.

  And then, as she knew she drew her last breath, to tell her that my fate would be far worse than a clean death …

  Yes, Haman was a monster.

  Even if I could have forgiven all the rest, to tell her that, to send her into the afterlife knowing what awaited her cherished son—that I could never forgive. If only for that cruelty alone, Haman must pay. Someday and somehow, I would find a way to make him suffer as my mother had suffered.

  * * *

  But understanding that Isqanqur’s wickedness fell far short of Haman’s did not endear him to me. As I have said, Isqanqur regarded me as nothing more than an expensive pet, of less worth than his dogs and his horses. He had purchased me because I had belonged to Lord Orodes, and Isqanqur longed to be as highly regarded. Isqanqur could not grasp the truth—that he could not buy what Lord Orodes had possessed. For a man whose god was wealth, this failure baffled and angered him.

  Sometimes I wondered why he had bothered to buy me at all, for after the first month or so he seldom called me to his bed. When he did, I knew I would spend the days afterward nursing bruises and trying to forget what I had been forced to do. It was not so bad after Isqanqur bought himself another gift: twin sisters.

  Padmavarna and Padmavati. Girls from the easternmost, the richest, province of the empire. Hindush, where rivers ran bright with gold. I had never seen anything as lovely as those two girls. Small, light-boned as doves, but full-curved at breast and hip; skin the pale gold of ripe wheat and hair that rippled like black water to their knees. Green glass bangles glinted on their wrists and silver bells chimed on their ankles, and I lusted after both girls.

  I see you shake your head, disbelieving—for after all, am I not a eunuch? How can I ache to caress a woman? Well, I was not cut until I was nearly grown, and Haman’s final poisoned gift to me was a night that taught my body what it was for. And I remembered. Oh, yes, I looked upon Padmavarna and Padmavati and I burned to possess them as any man might.

  And I had them, too. At first I saw them only at a distance. Isqanqur amused himself with his new toys, and then grew bored with them. He had long since grown weary of pretending he wanted me.

  One night he summoned all three of us to his bedchamber. I remember standing at the door into that room, the two sisters beside me. They held hands, their fingers so tightly laced the skin paled. And in their night-black eyes I saw the same hopeless contempt that I felt.

  “Endure. He cannot enter here.” I pressed my hand over my heart, hesitated, and then reached out and brushed my fingertips across the swell of their left breasts. “Not here,” I said as I felt the hard beat of their hearts. I learned later they barely understood Persian, but that did not matter, for they grasped my meaning well enough.

  We needed endurance that night, for Isqanqur demanded services from all three of us, and when that palled, he ordered us to perform with each other. We obeyed, of course. We touched what he told us to touch, kissed and caressed and fondled as he ordered. I locked myself away; I felt nothing, not even shame. Padmavarna and Padmavati later told me they had done the same. A vital skill for those whose bodies belong to whoever pays. I wondered if Isqanqur even noticed that none of us displayed any sign of passion. No smiles, no sighs, no gasps or moans. We followed his commands in silence; our faces as unrevealing as painted masks.

  When at last Isqanqur tired of watching his toys at play, he sent us away brusquely. Perhaps he had noticed after all; I did not care. The twins and I fled his bedchamber, and without a word spoken among us, hastened to the bathhouse. None of us cared that it was late in the night. We stripped off the gaudy ornaments Isqanqur had us wear and helped each other bathe, scrubbing and rinsing until at least our bodies were clean.

  Then I began the task of combing out Padmavarna’s thick black hair, while she did the same for Padmavati. The silence began to oppress me; I dipped the sandalwood comb in oil, and as I coaxed the comb through a tangle, I said, “I am sorry.”

  “Is not your fault.” Although the bathhouse was warm, Padmavarna shivered.

  I put my arms around her and she curved around and buried her face against my chest. I felt her tears hot and wet on my skin. I pressed my cheek against the top of her head as I held out one hand to her sister. Padmavati too came into my embrace. How long we sat curled into each other, offering silent comfort, I do not know. I do know that night was the turning point, as if the gods decided I had learned enough, suffered enough, to be ready for the next move in their eternal game.

  Isqanqur had pushed us past fear. Now Padmavarna and Padmavati and I became, not friends, but allies. I taught them more Persian and they taught me the language of Hindush. That was not all they taught me. The twin lotuses—for they both were named for that flower—were supple as serpents, and knew erotic tricks that would have made the famed courtesan Zebbani blush.

  The pleasure we gave each other’s bodies was enhanced by the knowledge that each honey-sweet kiss, each shuddering delight, each smile and soft laugh, we stole from Isqanqur.

  * * *

  The precarious balance of life in Isqanqur’s house could not last. My contempt for him became too obvious; reveling in deception, I became careless. If I angered Isqanqur, he would whip me. I had suffered that before; the threat of it no longer troubled me. I did not realize how deeply Isqanqur’s anger ran, and I was not nearly as clever as I thought I was.

  Of course, it was my contempt, and my failure to conceal my scorn, that opened the gate to the future I needed. First, however, I received one last lesson. Much later I realized the value of that beating; I needed to rein in my pride and to curb my tongue.

  * * *

  On my last day as Isqanqur’s slave, he decided to have me accompany him as he paraded through the streets to the slave market. For such a sober task, Isqanqur had donned garments more suitable to a royal banquet, while I had been weighed down with half a dozen gaudy necklaces, earrings so long they brushed my shoulders, and bracelets so heavy I could scarcely raise my hands. As I followed Isqanqur through the streets toward the market district, I wondered if he truly thought flaunting his wealth in this fashion impressed anyone. Lord Orodes would have despised such a tasteless display.

  My thoughts showed plain on my face, which was a mistake. Isqanqur glanced back at me; turned and grabbed my arm. “Stop that,” he snarled. “You don’t belong to that soft, overbred idiot Orodes now. I won’t permit—”

  I never learned what he wouldn’t permit, for words seemed to come out of my mouth of their own will. “At least Lord Orodes knew what to do with a boy, or even a girl. Of course, his slaves were willing to go to his bed—”

  Even as I said the words, I knew I had gone too far. So swiftly I had no chance even to turn away and run, Isqanqur grabbed me by my hair and hauled me to my knees before him. Then he began to beat me. His fist hit fast and hard as a stone, and all I could do was try to protect my face from his furious blows. I tried to withdraw into myself, distance myself from what my body suffered, but there was no rhythm to Isqanqur’s wild attack. He struck in maddened rage, and I was unable to separate myself from the harsh pain. I could only endure, and pray he stopped before he killed me.

  I barely noticed when my prayers were answered. Isqanqur slammed his fist into my cheek; pulled back, readying to strike again. I waited for the next blow, wondering how many more he would slam into my body before he tired, how many more I could end
ure before he damaged me beyond repair. I raised my hands to protect my face, and waited—and slowly realized Isqanqur’s next blow would never land. A man grasped Isqanqur’s wrist and Isqanqur had released my hair and rounded upon him.

  “There’s no need to kill the boy.” My savior spoke in the mildest of voices; he opened his hand, freeing Isqanqur’s wrist. That, I thought dazedly, was a mistake.

  “I’ll do as I please with what I own,” Isqanqur told him, and turned back to me.

  “If you do kill him, it will be murder, you know.”

  This time Isqanqur lifted his fist to add emphasis to his anger. “And if you don’t pull your nose out of what does not concern you, I’ll—”

  “I really wouldn’t advise doing that,” the man said. He did not move, and no fear showed either on his face or in his voice.

  “Oh you wouldn’t?” Isqanqur stared at the man, who was plainly dressed and wore little jewelry. I could see Isqanqur dismiss him as someone of no importance, with nothing about him to impress or fear. “Who are you to give me orders? Be off before I teach you manners as well!”

  But where Isqanqur saw only an interfering passerby, I saw a man whose plain garments were made of the most finely woven linen—linen dyed a pure sky blue, a color difficult to achieve and costly to acquire. As jewels, he wore only earrings and a bracelet—the earrings exquisite silver doves, and the bracelet a wide band of hammered gold. I judged his garb at least twice as costly as Isqanqur’s flashy robes and gaudy jewels.

  All this I swiftly noted even as Isqanqur ordered the man away, and I acted even faster. Ignoring the pain throbbing through my body, I flung myself at my rescuer’s feet. “Please, my lord…”

  The man bent, grasped my arms. “Can you stand?” Although I didn’t know whether I could or not, I nodded, and gasped as the pain lanced sharper as he helped me to my feet. I clung to his hands, trying desperately to find the words that would snare him, make him claim me from Isqanqur.

  But all I could manage to say was, “Help me. Please.”

  The man looked at me intently. Very gently, he touched my battered cheek. “Yes,” he said, “Of course.” Then, to Isqanqur, “What is the price?”

  “Oh, he’s not for sale.” Isqanqur grabbed my arm hard; I flinched and bit my lip to keep from yelping as his fingers clenched over bruises. “I have plans for him.”

  “I see. I have plans for him, too, so shall we say … one hundred darics?”

  Isqanqur’s expression changed, for of all things under the sky, he most loved money. One hundred darics was a huge sum, and I was only a slave, after all. Replaceable. “One hundred darics? You carry such a sum with you?” Isqanqur sneered.

  The man’s tranquil expression didn’t change. “Of course not. You can collect it at the palace.” He waited, and then, as Isqanqur gaped at him, sighed and said, “All right, two hundred darics.”

  Apparently struck dumb, Isqanqur nodded. The man gently set me aside, and I leaned against the nearest wall for support as he pulled off his seal ring and held it out to Isqanqur. “Take this to the office of the king’s treasurer and tell him to give you two hundred darics, and that my ring proves the request true and valid. Leave the ring with the treasurer and I will claim it back from him. Oh, and have him write out a receipt for the sale for you to sign.”

  As if entranced, Isqanqur accepted the seal ring. “The king’s treasurer. Two hundred darics. A receipt.” He didn’t even glance at me as he left, hastening to claim the money before the man changed his mind.

  Once Isqanqur had gone, I pushed myself away from the support of the wall. Forcing myself to ignore the varied pains as I moved, I bowed low before my rescuer.

  “You do not know what horrors you saved me from, my lord. But I do, and in gratitude for your intercession I would be your willing slave—even had you not purchased me.” I noted that my new owner flushed, and shifted as if embarrassed. Was he shy, then? Well, I knew how to deal with shyness. “You paid too much for me,” I added. “A few minutes’ bargaining, and you could have had me for a quarter of that.” Bold, you will say—but boldness is a virtue, with a certain type of man.

  “Perhaps,” my new owner said. “But it doesn’t matter.” He seemed about to say something more, but fell silent as he studied me. I could do nothing about the vivid whip marks, or the many-hued bruises, but I could smile at him. Even that hurt. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  I slanted my eyes at him. “I call myself Bagoas.”

  He sighed. “Of course you do. But you’re free now, so you may call yourself whatever you wish—even your own name.”

  His steady eyes compelled, and I found myself telling him the truth, or at least some of it. “My owners have called me Bagoas.”

  “And is that what you wish to call yourself?”

  “No.” I thought for a moment. “I will be Hegai now.”

  He tilted his head, regarding me with interest, as if I were a scroll he wished to read. “Hegai? You want to call yourself ‘eunuch’?”

  “I am a eunuch. And I must be called something.”

  “Why not still call yourself Bagoas, then?”

  “Something … suitable,” I said.

  “Oh, I see.” He did not ask any more questions about my name, for which I was thankful. I did not need Haman learning where I was now, or with whom. I let a few moments pass before I asked, “May I know my lord’s name?”

  “Oh. Daniel. I’m Daniel. Now come along, Hegai, we need to get you to someone who can treat those injuries.”

  * * *

  My luck had changed again, this time for the better—no, for the best. For the first time, I mounted the Great Staircase to the palace. All the world seemed to be on those stairs—merchants with wares garnered from Cathay at the eastern end of the Silk Road to Damascus at the western; princes who had traveled a thousand miles on the Royal Road to come before the King of Kings; Immortals riding oil-sleek horses; messengers running up and down upon palace business.

  Bazaars lined the sides of great flat terraces between the long wide flights of stairs. Booths sold everything from turquoises to crimson leather boots to golden fish in crystal bowls. Scribes and booksellers and tailors; jewelers, swordsmiths, perfumers; a dozen dozen booths selling flowers. There seemed no rule to what was sold where that I could see—just a vast brilliant confusion of bright-hued tents and treasures of every sort in every color the gods had ever spread upon the earth.

  When at last we had climbed the Great Staircase, I paused for a moment at the top of the vast expanse of smooth-polished marble and gazed out across the bright city to the mountains far to the east. I smiled, and followed Daniel through the King’s Gate into the palace.

  Or, more truthfully, into the citadel that crowned Shushan. Many palaces had been built within the citadel’s shielding walls. Oddly, I had not been surprised to discover that Daniel lived within the palace or that he ranked so highly he had been granted his own house and a small walled garden.

  As he led me through the gate into his garden, a woman came out of the blue-tiled house. She had fair hair and blue eyes, and carried a copper bowl full of figs. She stopped when she saw us and regarded Daniel reproachfully. “Oh, Daniel, what have you done now?”

  “I bought a eunuch,” Daniel said.

  “You bought a what?” A tall, lean man strode out of the house; stopped and glared at Daniel.

  The woman set down the copper bowl. “Arioch, you’re frightening the boy.”

  Arioch’s gaze shifted to me. After a moment, he said, “I doubt it. All right, Daniel, what happened this time?”

  “He can tell us later. The boy needs his injuries looked after.” The woman came over and gently put her arm around my shoulders. “Come with me.” Her voice was kind and her touch soft; I let myself relax into her support.

  Behind me I heard Daniel say, “His owner was trying to beat him to death, so—”

  “So you bought him,” Arioch finished. “How much, Daniel?”

/>   There was a long pause before Daniel answered. “Two hundred darics.”

  “Two hundred darics?” Arioch said. “Daniel, are you out of your mind?”

  I drew myself up and turned, looked straight into Arioch’s lion-gold eyes. “I’m worth it,” I told him.

  “Oh, I’ll just bet you are.” Arioch went over to Daniel and flung his arm around Daniel’s shoulders. “Come on, Daniel, tell me what trouble I’m going to have to haul you out of this time.”

  “None. No, really, Arioch—”

  I heard no more, for the woman guided me into the house. “I’m Samamat,” she told me. “Sit here, and tell me how and where you’re injured…” I knew what silent question hung in the air, so I said, “Hegai. My name is Hegai.”

  “Hegai.” Samamat sounded as if what she really wanted to say was, “It is not!” Instead, she said, “Very well, Hegai. Now tell me what happened to you and what hurts.”

  She listened as I explained, and examined me carefully. I had been fortunate; although badly bruised, no bones seemed broken, and my face had not been marred beyond mending. Samamat wiped my skin with vinegar and wine; the liquid stung like fire in the small cuts it found. Then she handed me a cup. “Drink this. It’s honey and poppy syrup. It will stop the pain.”

  I drank, and she was right; the mixture stopped the pain. I felt nothing until I awoke the next morning.

  That is how I came to the palace of the King of Kings: brought there by Daniel Dream-Master, a Jew long famed for his wisdom and judgment, and for telling the truth of dreams. He possessed another gift as well. Daniel saw the future. Much later, when all plots had been spun and all debts paid, I asked Daniel what he had seen, that day he saved me from death and brought me into the life of the imperial palace.

  “I saw a boy being beaten to death,” Daniel said, and when I asked if that was all, if there had been nothing more, Daniel merely smiled and said,