Esther : Royal Beauty (9781441269294)

by Hunt, Angela Elwell

  “This is too much!” The words sprang from my tongue before I could think to restrain myself. “Truly, Hatakh, these fabrics ought to be used for something finer than bed coverings.”

  The eunuch shook his head. “The king delights to share the wealth of his empire with those he loves, and he would not have his queen sleeping on sackcloth. This is yours, and if you desire anything else, you have but to ask. Whatever you need, whatever you want, I am here to serve you.”

  I sank onto a small upholstered stool and felt the rich texture of tapestry beneath my hand. In all my girlish imagination, I had never imagined such riches in one chamber. Though I hadn’t thought of my friends from our Jewish community in months, I had a sudden impulse to find them and invite them to my bedchamber—they would have to see it to believe it.

  “And now, my queen,” Hatakh said, stepping back and gesturing to a gilded doorway, “an audience awaits you in the garden.”

  My heart leapt into my throat. I hadn’t prepared to see anyone. If these were counselors or even household staff, I knew less than they did about being a queen. Panic-stricken, I turned to Harbonah. “Who’s out there?”

  His reserved expression relaxed. “The king’s children, my queen. Thirty-three of them.”

  Children?

  Summoning a smile, I rose and moved to the doorway Hatakh had indicated. A short walk through an elaborately decorated passageway led into a rectangular garden of clipped shrubs and fruit trees arranged around a long reflecting pool. Beyond a particularly thick shrub, I heard hushed whisperings.

  I hurried forward, and the moment I turned the corner, a noisy chorus of “Welcome, Queen Esther” greeted me. As one, the children prostrated themselves on the flagstones, a half circle of squirming bodies and disobedient heads that kept rising in order to peek at me.

  My heart overflowed with happiness. I had always wanted a sibling, and later I had dreamed of a house filled with children. How wonderful that marriage to the king had brought me a garden brimming with youngsters.

  I sighed, then swiped a tear of joy from my lower lashes. “Rise, please,” I begged them, reaching out to the closest child. “I am so happy to meet all of you. Would you please come and tell me your names?”

  They rushed forward, surrounding me, but another eunuch, clearly their tutor, restored order by clapping. He ordered them to approach me by rank and birth order, beginning with the crown prince and his brothers.

  The children shuffled into a single line, headed by a handsome boy. I recognized the eyes immediately—they were replicas of the dark orbs that had shone only inches from mine the previous night. “I am Darius.” The boy stepped forward. “I am the son of the king and his true queen, Vashti.”

  I caught my breath as a flesh-and-blood character from Hegai’s story looked up into my eyes. If the eunuch spoke the truth, this was the prince my king had married to his own lover, Artaynta. I glanced at Harbonah. How was I supposed to handle this child? Did I ask about his wife? Did I even acknowledge her existence, since she had fallen out of favor? Did she still live in the harem, or did she still . . . live?

  “Thank you, Prince Darius,” the tutor called, providing me with a means of escape. “I will speak to you later about how to show proper respect for your father’s queen.”

  My heart was still pounding when a second boy moved forward and bowed stiffly. “I am Hystaspes, second son born to the king and his queen Vashti.”

  I nodded and forced a smile. Either Vashti had put her sons up to these awkward introductions, or they were formed of the same mettle as their mother.

  A third boy, a more compact copy of the first two, walked up. “I’m Artaxerxes.” He peered up at me through bangs that nearly covered his eyes. “I’m this many.” He held up five fingers and gave me a smile that nearly swept me off my feet. This darling child, at least, had a gentle heart.

  “Wonderful to meet you, Artaxerxes.” I bent and braced my hands on my knees. “I hope we shall be very good friends.”

  The boy grinned at me, then shuffled off to rejoin his brothers. I watched him go, realizing he had been a mere babe in arms at the time of the king’s first banquet. Unlike his brothers, he hadn’t been old enough to feel the sting of humiliation when the king moved Vashti and her children out of the queen’s palace.

  I cut my calculations short and returned to my task. Thirty other children still waited to greet me, the sons and daughters of concubines. All of them charmed me, even those who were too young to walk, but I came away determined to fulfill three important resolutions: first, as the king’s wife, I would do everything in my power to influence Vashti’s sons. They would benefit from their father’s strength, but they did not need their mother’s thirst for blood. Such a combination in a king could result in the destruction of the empire.

  Second, I would never forget that I was one of many women who shared the king’s bed.

  And third, though the king had honored me and placed a crown upon my head, I could never take my position for granted. He had already deposed one queen; he could easily set aside another.

  If I did not honor and obey him, I might find myself anonymous and forgotten in the harem.

  During the early months of my marriage, I was as happy as any woman has a right to be. Though I no longer enjoyed the companionship of my friends in the house of the virgins, I drew closer to the seven handmaids who had been with me since my arrival at the palace. I gave them pet names to remind me of my Jewish upbringing, and each time I called for one of them, memories of Mordecai and Miriam flooded back to my heart.

  The bossiest of the maids reminded me of Sunday, our workday after the Sabbath, so I named her Hulta. Rokita was as light and fair as the sky overhead, so I named her after the Hebrew word for firmament, created on the second day. Genunita specialized in cosmetics and lotions made from plants, so I named her after the Hebrew word for garden, created on the third day. Nehorita I named after the Hebrew word for luminous, for HaShem made the moon and the sun on the fourth day. On the fifth day of creation our world saw the first animals, so I named my fifth maid Ruhshita, for movement. Hurfita was as soft and sweet as a ewelamb, created on the sixth day. Finally, I named Regoita after the word for rest—our duty on the seventh day.

  My days were mine to fill as I pleased, and in the early months of our marriage the king often invited me to join him in his throne room. I did so eagerly at first, happy to sit by his side and learn more about the man I called husband. The king spent most of his time hearing the petitions of visiting nobles, governors of the provinces, and emissaries to the various satraps. Occasionally he entertained nobles and members of various trade expeditions. Most of these hours were pleasant, both for me and my king.

  But occasionally I saw and heard things that chilled my blood.

  One morning a casual air filled the audience hall. Several of the nobles and vice-regents were mingling in the center of the great hall as the king spoke to one of his generals. They had lowered their voices to discuss the defense of a border at one of the outposts, and I had completely lost interest in the conversation.

  But a stirring at the entrance to the throne room caught my attention. I looked up and saw a man approaching, a gutted deer slung over his shoulder. A pair of guards stepped forward to detain him, but the man pushed through, smiling and cocksure as he stalked forward.

  As he passed the guards, his features came into full view and I gasped. Mushka. The youth who had so charmed me and Parysatis in our younger years had matured into a powerful man. He strode forward, blood and gore dripping from the animal on his shoulder, but nothing in his appearance appealed to me. He moved with a certain arrogance, and his attitude spoke of disrespect for his royal uncle.

  Nevertheless, Mushka strode into the throne room as though certain of his king’s tolerance and forgiveness. Every eye in the hall widened at his approach, then heads shifted toward the throne, where the king was still conversing with his general. The two Immortals who stood before the th
rone stepped forward and drew their swords, but hesitated.

  “Uncle!” Grinning, Mushka slung the bloody doe onto the floor. “Look what the hunter has won!”

  My husband looked up, and in that instant I saw the king replace the doting uncle. What happened away from the throne room had little to do with what was allowed to happen within it, and no one, not even a favorite relative, could jauntily stroll into the royal audience hall and demand the king’s attention.

  The king turned his face away, and in that gesture I read the man’s fate. The two Immortals closest to the throne stepped forward, swords in hand, and cut Mushka down before he could draw breath to protest.

  I gasped and covered my eyes, unable to bear the sight of such violence. When I was finally able to look, members of the king’s guard were carrying the body away. A lone guard carried Mushka’s head by its hair, leaving bright spatters of blood over the mosaic tiles.

  According to Persian law, no one, not even a king, could execute a man for a single offense, but any person approaching the king without permission was assumed to have murder on his mind. The guards, therefore, struck without hesitation.

  After that, I did not visit the throne room unless the king expressly asked me to appear at court.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Hadassah

  AS THE NIGHT EXHALED SPRING PERFUME, I snuggled closer to the warmth of my husband’s body. The king snored softly and drew me closer, gentle and sweet even in sleep.

  I sighed and brushed his arm with my fingertips, then smiled as a realization struck me: I had fallen in love with the man who commanded me to marry him. Before meeting the king, I never understood what love entailed—I understood infatuation, for what young girl couldn’t identify with the intense yearning and erratic pulse of young love—but I never fully comprehended the relationship between Miriam and Mordecai. Their love was an almost tangible connection, anyone could feel the bond between them, but I had no idea how to form that kind of attachment to someone else.

  When I had protested that I did not love Binyamin as a wife should, both Mordecai and Miriam assured me that my love for him would grow as naturally as a flower reaches for the sun. But because I had known Binyamin since childhood, I imagined that married love would be akin to the love a sister feels for a brother.

  I had never imagined this.

  I smiled and ran my fingertips over the wiry dark hairs along my husband’s arm.

  What I felt for my husband the king was far more vital than anything I could feel for a brother. The urge to have his lips on mine was so strong I often had my handmaids dress me hours before I expected his summons. I paced in my chamber, so eager to see him that I practically flew to the door when the eunuchs arrived to escort me to his presence.

  The rumors I had heard, the old stories that filled me with dread and anxiety, vanished in the warmth of my husband’s smile. How could the man who laughed at my silly stories ever execute an innocent? How could the man who called me his tiny angel be ruthless or cruel? How could the man who slumbered in my arms be impulsive or bloodthirsty?

  In truth, I saw my husband as a great king, a kind man, and a vibrant lover. He smiled when I entered the room; he ordered everyone else away and led me to his banqueting table, where we fed each other from fruit trays and drank sweet wine. With great concern he asked how I had spent my day; with equal concern I asked if he had any news he wanted to share with me.

  He never did, but I never expected him to ask my opinion, for what did I know of empires?

  Then he would ask if I was happy, and with a heart full of love I would answer yes.

  He would hand me a scroll, a collection of love poetry or a romantic story, and I would sit at his feet and read to him. But before I finished, my husband the king would gather me into his arms and carry me to his bed. There I finally understood the passion in the Shir-Hashirim, the sacred scrolls written by Solomon, the son of David:

  As the king reclines at table,

  My nard gives forth its perfume:

  To me the man I love is a sachet of myrrh

  Lodged between my breasts;

  To me the man I love is a spray of henna flowers

  In the vineyards of Ein-Gedi . . .

  Sustain me with raisins, refresh me with apples, for I am sick with love.

  I wish his left arm were under my head,

  And his right arm around me.

  As the long night faded into morning, the sunrise bringing my husband to wakefulness, I would press my ear to his chest to hear the strong beat of his heart.

  A brave heart.

  A loyal heart.

  A king’s heart.

  And when he was fully awake, my husband would kiss me again as my eyes filled with tears at the thought of parting from him.

  But I had to leave him, for he had an empire to oversee, and I had to return to my handmaids for a day of lotions and dressmaking and hairdressing.

  Parysatis, I thought one morning as I walked back to the queen’s palace, would be sick with envy if she could see me now. But Mordecai would not approve of my lifestyle, for I had thoroughly and unabashedly given my love to a man who neither knew nor respected the God of my fathers.

  My mouth twisted at the thought of my long-neglected cousin. I had not been to the harem garden in weeks, though I was certain Mordecai still walked outside the wall every day. He was not the sort to forget a promise, even though he might have wondered if I had forgotten him.

  He walked that path to keep me safe, but when lying in my husband’s arms I had no need of a defender. I belonged to my beloved and he to me, and no one could touch me. No one would dare.

  Especially since I carried a secret.

  For the past two months, my body had not bled in its regular cycle. My handmaids were atwitter with the possibility that I carried a new crown prince, and I had caught them whispering about the possibility that Vashti might finally be stripped of all pretensions to power. I did not dare speculate about the future, but happily sat in the garden and watched the royal children at play, imagining my own child among the mix.

  What might my son look like? He would have his father’s strong chin, of course, and I hoped he would inherit the king’s tall frame. He would be strong, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with shapely arms and olive skin. He would be the perfect little prince.

  The king would want him to be fit and powerful, but I would be content if he were endowed with a quiet spirit and a kind heart. The king had exhibited nothing but tenderness toward me, though I knew he could be ruthless when he had to be. I would never forget what happened to Mushka.

  I understood that a king could not rule so vast an empire with nothing but gentleness. Iron undergirded my husband’s velvet hand, or he would not have deposed Vashti and made me queen. Power lay in his fist, or he could not have avenged his father’s defeat in Greece.

  I could only hope I would never feel the weighty force of his disapproval.

  My husband expected his children to be strong, as well. While watching a group of eunuchs tutor the king’s sons, I saw that the princes were expected to be proficient in archery, spear throwing, and horsemanship. When not exercising their bodies, their tutors drilled them about how to prevent evil, behave with good morals, and follow the truth. But what truth did they follow?

  As I listened to the tutors discuss truth as though it were a tangible essence to be discovered and grasped, I found myself missing Mordecai. He found Truth in the word of Adonai, and I had never met anyone so wise. More than anything, I yearned for my son—or daughter—to benefit from my cousin’s teaching.

  I once asked Mordecai how he came to know so much. Instead of answering, he bent to pick up a scroll. His hands caressed the leather straps with reverent tenderness as he met my gaze. “The Tehillim,” he said simply, unrolling the scroll. Then, holding the scroll in a golden orb of lamplight, he began to read:

  “How I love your Torah!

  I meditate on it all day.

  I
am wiser than my foes,

  because your mitzvot are mine forever.

  I have more understanding than all my teachers,

  because I meditate on your instruction.

  I understand more than my elders,

  because I keep your precepts.

  I keep my feet from every evil way,

  in order to observe your word.

  I don’t turn away from your rulings,

  because you have instructed me.

  How sweet to my tongue is your promise,

  Truly sweeter than honey in my mouth!

  From your precepts I gain understanding;

  This is why I hate every false way.”

  Mordecai lowered the scroll and looked at me with patient love shining in his eyes. “Do you see, Hadassah?”

  I bit my lip, understanding but not particularly liking what I understood. “You are wise because you read the holy scrolls.” All the time.

  He smiled. “If you want wisdom, daughter, know this: Torah is a lamp for your foot and a light on your path.”

  I nodded, then pretended to hear Miriam calling me to help with the evening meal. And as I walked away, I heard Mordecai sigh.

  Later, I had told myself. When I had married and begun to raise a family, I would listen to my husband read Torah and become one of the wise old women everyone respected. Until then, I had dreams to cherish and ideas to explore.

  But as I considered a long and luxurious life with my royal husband, I found myself longing for the sight of Mordecai reading a Torah scroll by lamplight.

  Why does love move into a barren heart and furnish its home with fear? Love came to me unexpectedly, but with its attendant joys I discovered unimagined sources of dread. Light and happiness surrounded me when I basked in the king’s presence, but away from him, shadows colored my thoughts and darkened my imaginings.