Esther : Royal Beauty (9781441269294)

by Hunt, Angela Elwell

  That’s when I realized that Mordecai was maintaining a secret.

  “Tell me.” A smile curved my lips. “Do your overseers at the King’s Gate know you are a Jew?”

  He might have been surprised that a eunuch could be so perceptive, but Mordecai was nearly as skilled as I at concealing his emotions. His brow flickered; then he tipped his head back and looked at me. “Does my being a Jew affect my work?”

  I shrugged. “I have never heard anything but good reports about your service for the king.”

  “Does my being a Jew matter to you?”

  “No more than my being a eunuch seems to matter to you.”

  A muscle quivered at Mordecai’s jaw, and he shook his head. “I am sorry for the injustice that has brought you to this place. But I will always see you as a friend.”

  “As I see you, truly. And as the king sees you. My master knows his empire is composed of many tribes and kingdoms. He is tolerant and expects others to be tolerant, as well.”

  Mordecai nodded slowly. “And yet . . . people fear those who are not like themselves. And fear spawns persecution. We saw it in Judea; we saw it in Babylon.” He seemed preoccupied for a moment, as if troubling memories had suddenly overshadowed his awareness of our conversation. Finally, he looked up. “For reasons you may not understand, I am not at peace about announcing my heritage in this place. I will not deny it, but neither will I announce it.”

  “Yet you have no reason to fear.” Aware that we might be overheard, I glanced quickly left and right, then pulled Mordecai deeper into the alcove. “The great Cyrus liberated your people! He gave them permission to return to Judea and even restored the sacred objects that had been stolen by the Babylonians—”

  “Of course,” Mordecai interrupted, his voice smooth. “He did so because Adonai compelled him to act on our behalf. But this king—”

  “Has my master not been good to you?”

  Mordecai tilted his head and weighed me with a critical squint. “I can see that you admire him. I do too in some respects. I am pleased to work in his treasury. But do you not recall the occasion when he received a letter from the enemies of Israel? He did not respond favorably to my people that day. Indeed, he condemned them.”

  I stammered, searching my memory until the recollection emerged. Not long after my master ascended to the throne, a group of Judean Samaritans had attempted to terrorize the returning Jews and stop their efforts to rebuild the city walls. They wrote my master, charging the Judeans with rebuilding a “rebellious and wicked city.” They warned that the Jews, if successful in finishing the city walls, would refuse to pay tribute or taxes, thus reducing the royal revenue. They had ended their letter with a stern warning: “If this city is rebuilt and the walls are finished, you will soon lose possession of all territories beyond the river.”

  Though previous Persian kings had supported the Jews in Judea, my master determined to research the matter for himself. He had the letter translated from the Aramaic and searched the royal archives for confirmation of the Samaritans’ story. After finding proof that Jerusalem had indeed been a rebellious city ruled by powerful kings, he sent the plaintiffs a terse reply: “So now, order that these men stop work and that this city not be rebuilt until I order it. Take care not to neglect your duty; otherwise the harm may increase, to the damage of the king.”

  The king discussed the correspondence with his vice-regents, and I had been privy to the conversation.

  Reluctantly, I met Mordecai’s eye. “My master did not condemn the Jews. He merely stopped the work.”

  “But he didn’t support them, as had his father and Cyrus before him. So my fellow Jews and I have decided to quietly remain in Susa. When the ground beneath a man’s feet is uncertain, he does well to tread lightly.”

  I gazed at the accountant, surprised and intrigued by his reasoning. I had known Mordecai only as an accountant who kept records, recorded tributes, sealed and sent correspondence. Our encounters had convinced me he was intelligent and diligent, yet I had never really seen the man behind the desk.

  What I saw that night, however, met with my approval.

  I bent my head in genuine respect. “I see no need to ever identify you as anyone other than Mordecai, an excellent accountant in the king’s service. Persia is an amalgamation of many peoples and many customs. My master has always exulted in the great variety of his empire.”

  Mordecai nodded, then clapped me on the shoulder, a surprising gesture from one usually so reserved. “Thank you. And if you will seat me in the shadows, I will be able to collect my family before sunset. We do not travel on the seventh day.”

  I blinked, not understanding, but his request could be accomplished easily enough. “I will not only seat you in the shadows,” I said, walking him back to where the women waited, “but I will do the same for your women.”

  Mordecai and his wife smiled in approval, but when I glanced at the girl I saw disappointment in her eyes.

  During the seventh feast I went through the motions of service and dreamed of again enjoying a normal life in the palace. Though one could argue that no life in the palace was “normal,” how luxurious it would be to wake without worrying about the thousands of guests expected for dinner. How marvelous to rub my hand over a throat not swollen from shouting orders to foolish slaves who didn’t know silk from linen.

  Time crawled on its hands and knees during that final banquet, the hours stretching themselves thin as the wine flowed freely and the crowd grew more raucous. I picked up a golden vessel of sweet wine and carried it through the garden, refilling rhytons while the musicians played and the concubines twirled among the trees. Most of the men had finished with the main courses, stuffing themselves with venison, horse, beef, and pork. Others were still eating, enjoying the sweet baked apples wrapped in pastry, a delicacy the cooks had worked all afternoon to prepare. Throughout the banquet, the guests’ golden goblets—no two of which were alike—rose frequently, along with shouts of praise to the king.

  I expected the king to be sober and satisfied, perhaps even weary, but as I approached the curtained dais I saw he was in rare high spirits. Apparently delighted to realize that the work of celebrating his army and his citizenry was nearly done, he appeared flushed from inebriation and contentment. He reclined on his gold couch, surrounded by his vice-regents—the nobles Carshena, Shethar, Admatha, Tarshish, Meres, Marsena, and Memucan. These advisors had also been feasting for six months and one week, yet none of them seemed as drunk as my master. Perhaps they had learned the importance of keeping their wits about them while dining with the king.

  I shifted the flagon to my pouring hand and approached the royal party. Catching my gaze, the king lifted his rhyton, then glanced at Memucan, the eldest and most trusted member of the inner circle. “I have heard,” the king drawled, “that you have taken a new wife.”

  Memucan nodded. “Yes, my king, I have. A lovely girl from Assyria. She’s one—” he hiccupped—“of the most beautiful women I have ever seen.”

  The king’s eyes narrowed. “Were the women of Persia not good enough for you?”

  Memucan flushed, undoubtedly realizing what he had implied. For the vice-regent to insinuate that his wife was more beautiful than any Persian woman was to imply that his woman was more beautiful than even the queen—

  A muscle in Memucan’s jaw flexed, and he shook his head so forcefully I feared he would hurt himself. “Forgive me, my king, I meant nothing by my thoughtless remark. Of course my wife is not the most beautiful woman in Persia or even in the palace. She is the most beautiful I have ever seen because I, being a common man, have not had an opportunity to closely observe the queen or the royal daughters or any of the lovely concubines who grace your presence. Not that I require such an occasion. I am content with my own wife.”

  “You’ve never been near the queen?” My master sat up and looked around the circle of counselors. “Have any of you ever been close enough to speak to my wife?”

 
I stepped back, flagon in hand, and watched as the counselors stared at each other, all seven of them dumbstruck. Vashti had given birth to the king’s third son only a few months before, so she had been absent from court for some time. But while all of them had seen Vashti before her pregnancy, few would have had occasion to speak with her. No man, however, wanted to report a private conversation, for who could know what a drunken king was thinking?

  They waited, each man terrified, until the king looked directly at Carshena, the youngest. “Surely you have been close enough to appreciate the queen’s beauty.”

  “I have, my king, but only for an instant. Yet I did not see her, because I fell prostrate as she passed by.” The young man bowed his head, then lifted his gaze. “Still, I am certain that a lovelier woman is not to be found in all the empire.”

  The king grunted, then allowed his gaze to drift over the hundreds of male guests lolling on the couches in the apadana and the garden beyond. “They haven’t seen Vashti,” he murmured. “They live in this city, they have eaten my food for a week, yet they do not appreciate the greatest treasure I possess. They have no idea that my consort is the fairest woman in all creation.”

  I took another step back and would have retreated, but the solidity of a marble column blocked my way. An ill wind had begun to blow through the king’s mind; I recognized the signs. My master was brilliant, charming, and gracious when he chose to be, but a darkness often descended upon him, a bleak mood brought on by an excess of wine and always accompanied by thoughts of women. I noticed his lowered brow, recognized the smirk twisting his upper lip, and sensed the disaster about to befall us.

  “Biztha,” the king roared, setting his rhyton down with such force that red wine spilled on the tray. “You and your fellows go to the queen’s palace and fetch Vashti to me. She should come at once, wearing the royal crown, so she will look like the queen of the king who rules the world.”

  Biztha, one of the eunuchs who guarded the king inside the palace, stepped forward, but he went pale at the king’s order. I trembled for him—Vashti was a proud woman, and she had been asked to host a banquet and conduct a tour for the women of Susa. She had reluctantly agreed, but this would undoubtedly be too much. She had frustrated the king before, and unless she was in an uncommonly agreeable mood, she would frustrate him again tonight.

  The seven eunuchs who guarded the king filed into double lines and strode out of the chamber. I slinked away from the royal presence, then ran to intercept Biztha in the hallway.

  He halted as soon as he saw me.

  “What should I do?” He shook his hands as if he would shake off the king’s order. “The queen will not want to be summoned, not when she has guests. Every woman in Susa is watching her tonight—will she leave them in order to obey the king?”

  “I don’t think she will,” I answered truthfully. “But you have not been charged with compelling her, so summon her as the king ordered, and let her answer speak for her. You can do nothing else.”

  My stomach tightened into a knot as Biztha hurried after the other eunuchs in the march toward the queen’s palace. “Please,” I begged whatever gods might be listening, “please put the queen in an amiable mood.”

  Compelled by curiosity, I followed the king’s eunuchs to the garden where the queen was entertaining the women of Susa. Even before I entered, I could hear the gentle buzz of feminine voices and smell sweet incense. Behind the vine-covered wall, the wealthiest of Susa’s families were enjoying a festive occasion with the poorest—truly a once-in-a-lifetime event. This should have been the grandest night of a week-long affair.

  But an intuition warned me that Susa’s feast would not end on a positive note.

  I slipped into the queen’s garden through a low door in the stone wall. Crouching beneath a spreading ligustrum tree, I could see the queen reclining alone on a golden couch beneath a white pavilion. Other couches had been spread throughout the garden, the area lit by soft lamps. Wine had been served at this banquet too, but the women had not drunk nearly as much as the men. Their kohl-lined eyes shone above bright smiles, yet no one in my hearing slurred her words or laughed too loudly.

  In the center pavilion, watching with the expression of a proud mother, Vashti appeared to be enjoying herself. From the safety of her couch, she called to guests who sat close by. As I stood and crept forward, remaining in the shadows, I recognized one of the women near the queen: Parmys, the lovely woman who had married Masistes, the king’s brother. Their teenaged daughter, Artaynta, sat beside Parmys, and both of them seemed at ease with the queen.

  I could only hope that Biztha would feel as relaxed when he relayed the king’s message.

  I had nearly reached the queen when Biztha and his companions entered through a guarded gate and marched immediately to the pavilion.

  “Begging your pardon, my queen.” Biztha dropped to one knee. “But the king commands that you present yourself at the men’s banquet. He would like you to come immediately, wearing your crown.”

  Vashti stiffened as soon as she heard the words present yourself, but she held her tongue until Biztha completed his speech. Then she arched a brow, shook her head slightly, and smiled at two women sitting just beyond the edge of the pavilion. “See how my husband bellows? He has had too much to drink; they all have, I’m sure. So he expects me to rise, leave my guests, and hurry over there to be ogled like some sort of concubine.”

  She offered honeyed, smooth words, but her dark brows rushed together as she met Biztha’s gaze. “Tell your master I cannot come. I have guests of my own, and I must attend to them.”

  “But my queen—”

  “Tell him I will not come.” She spoke now in a voice of iron. “No woman abandons the banquet she has agreed to host. And no woman, especially not a queen, obeys the order of a drunken fool.”

  Biztha stood, his arms trembling at his side. “Won’t you reconsider?”

  “I will not.” Her words were clipped and final. “Tell our king that I will speak to him later. But I am remaining here.”

  Biztha went a shade paler as he bowed again, turned, and led his company of eunuchs away through the garden gate.

  Still hidden among the shrubs, I inhaled deeply and rubbed my chin, uncertain of what I should do next. The success of these banquets was my responsibility, but what could I do if the king and queen chose to argue in the midst of the festivities? Given time and opportunity, I could soothe the king, but I didn’t think anyone had ever managed to soothe Vashti.

  I sighed and braced myself to endure whatever would come next. Such was the life of a slave—like dogs, we bore kicks we did not deserve and harsh words we had not earned. And when we did accomplish something noteworthy, we stood back and watched our masters accept the praise.

  As I turned to slip away, I spotted Mordecai’s wife and ward near a flowering hedge. A roasted shoat lay untouched on a platter between them, and their glasses appeared nearly full. They were both staring toward the white pavilion, apparently fascinated with the drama playing out before their eyes. Miriam, who might have understood the undercurrents eddying between a husband and wife, wore a troubled expression, but the girl’s eyes had gone wide with wonder.

  Clearly she didn’t realize that the evening had been a disaster.

  I shook my head and crept back through the gardener’s entrance. News of Vashti’s impertinent response would be all over Susa by morning, and on its way to the far-flung satraps by tomorrow evening. The response would be mixed, but one thing was certain: after this report, some people would begin to question whether my master had the strength of will to rule his father’s kingdom.

  If a man could not command his own wife, how could he hope to control an empire?

  By running through an alley, splashing through a fountain, and making use of a secret passage between the harem and the king’s residence, I managed to arrive at the king’s tent before the eunuchs returned with the queen’s reply. With an ease born of practice, I picked up a gol
den pitcher and began filling glasses, relieved that no one in the king’s party seemed to have noticed my absence. Then again, who notices a slave?

  When he and his cohorts returned, Biztha had the good sense to step forward and whisper the queen’s response to a guard, who then relayed it to the royal ear. The area beneath the white canopy swelled with silence as the king reflected on his wife’s answer to his summons. Then his face went pale except for deep red patches that flared over his angular cheekbones. He stood so suddenly that his guests startled, and then he left the tent and stalked into his chamber, leaving his counselors bewildered.

  The vice-regents drew together like frightened children, undoubtedly wondering how they should respond. Shethar, who could barely speak without coughing, wanted to retreat and leave the king alone, but Carshena pointed out that abandoning the king might be interpreted as indifference or disrespect. So one by one, they girded up their courage and stood. The eldest, Memucan, looked at me, then jerked his thumb toward the hall. “You, chamberlain—will you lead the way?”

  I lowered my pitcher, bowed to Memucan, and escorted the king’s counselors past three guard stations to a private chamber, where the king paced in erratic circles, his hands locked behind his back.

  Once they were all inside, I counted heads to make certain we had lost no one along the way. All seven men were considered friends of the king, so my master would do well to heed their advice. They knew every jot and tittle of Persian law, including what a king could and could not do.

  “She refused to come!” the king roared, his nostrils flaring as he faced his vice-regents. “What can I do to make her regret this?”