In the Field of Grace

by Tessa Afshar

  Once my aunt would have fought me and brought me under some form of discipline. But I think the combination of my father, Nehemiah, and me was too much for her.

  I doubt my cousin had intended that I should grow into womanhood with no feminine influences. Yet that is what I managed to accomplish by my stubborn refusal to give my aunt room in my life. By the time I was twenty, I was more scribe than woman. My aunt, tired out by my constant rejections, finally gave up.

  Cousin Nehemiah would visit us on occasion to check on my progress. Once he brought his own parchment and asked me to read. I unrolled the fragile papyrus on my father’s small desk to find a beautifully crafted Hebrew text.

  “I cannot read this, my lord.”

  “You do not read Hebrew?” He raised one eyebrow. “The language of your own people?”

  I shrugged. “It’s of little use in court documents.”

  He pressed his lips. “Perhaps you remember the words. I will read a few lines for you:

  God is our refuge and strength,

  A very present help in trouble.”

  I remembered them well, though it was a painful recollection I would as soon forget. I wondered what had provoked him to bring this particular psalm to me. Shying away from the emotions that were tethered to the words, I merely said, “I remember.”

  “I once heard you recite the whole psalm when you were a little girl. Did you know that?”

  “No, my lord.”

  He lowered his head. “It was when your mother was sick. She had been my favorite cousin growing up and I was sorely grieved at her illness. I visited your home often in those days, praying for a miracle.

  “Once, toward the end, I walked into her room. You were alone with her. She held your little hand. Neither of you had noticed me come in, and I remained silent, hoping not to disturb you. That’s when I heard you recite this psalm to her. You did it from beginning to end without flaw. You could not have been more than eight.”

  “I was seven.”

  He nodded. “Her eyes were closed. She was emaciated by then, and yet somehow still lovely. In those moments, there seemed to be such holiness about her. An utter lack of fear. I thought, God has truly become her refuge and her strength. Even that vile sickness could not rob her of her tranquility.”

  I cleared my throat and stared at the floor. How nice for him to have happy recollections of my mother’s illness. I could not share them.

  “Do you still remember the words to the entire psalm?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “You believed them then. Do you believe them now? Do you believe that God is your very present help in trouble?”

  I looked up. “No, my lord.”

  He had the kind of face that reflected his emotions. Disappointment settled on his features like a light veil. “I suspected as much. It’s hard to see those we love suffer without questioning God.”

  “I haven’t become an idolater,” I said in quick defense of my feelings. “I believe in the Lord. It’s only that these lavish promises have lost their meaning for me. Perhaps we are meant to help ourselves by our own efforts. Perhaps God is too busy to bother with our daily needs.”

  “I have never come across that principle in the Torah.”

  “That may be. But I have come across it in life.”

  He left shortly after this conversation. I wondered if my forthright admission had cost me his favor. But he came again for other visits, acting as though we had never spoken of my mother’s favorite psalm. And he made certain that I learned how to read and write Hebrew after that.

  My scribal work occupied my days to such a degree that I had little opportunity to enjoy the typical pleasures of young women. I never whiled away the hours in the company of girls my own age. I had no interest in what I considered to be their superficial pastimes. Few invitations came to my father and me, and our social life shrank to a few obligatory annual feasts.

  My world grew narrow and inward as a result. Father never noticed the lack, but perhaps Nehemiah did, for with one swift stroke he chose to expand the boundaries of my life.

  Nehemiah’s visits, though infrequent, were common enough that his appearance at our door late one evening gave me no cause for alarm.

  It was suppertime and I offered him barley soup and fresh bread. He examined the watery concoction I had prepared and declined.

  “So how is Sarah progressing?” he asked my father.

  Taking a slurping mouthful from his bowl, my father hesitated. “She is a dismal cook, but her skills as a scribe now surpass mine. What she lacks in experience, she makes up for in knowledge.”

  Nehemiah smiled. “That should satisfy.”

  “Satisfy whom?” I asked quickly, pleased at the thought of being satisfactory to anyone.

  “The queen.”

  My father straightened with an abrupt motion. “What have you done?” he asked, his voice faint.

  Nehemiah leaned back. The flowing sleeve of his silk robe moved like a billowing wave in the lamplight. “I have acted in Sarah’s best interest.”

  “Acted, how?”

  I was taken aback by my father’s hostility. The realization began to sink into my consciousness that my cousin had taken some momentous step that concerned me. “My lord?”

  “Sarah, you shall be the queen’s senior scribe.”

  * 457 BC

  Chapter Two

  The Sixteenth Year of King Artaxerxes’ Reign*

  Persepolis

  Earlier this week the queen dismissed her senior scribe,” Nehemiah said. “He had proven incompetent one too many times.” My cousin leaned back against a cushion. “She has since sifted through every eunuch available from Susa to Persepolis, but none has met with her approval.” He stopped speaking in order to brush an invisible fleck from his shoulder.

  “Here is where you come in, Sarah. It so happens that the queen has lately been reading the account of a female scribe in ancient Mesopotamia. Last evening, while she partook of supper with the king, she bemoaned the lack of such a woman in Persia.

  “I was present during this conversation, and was given the opportunity to tell Her Majesty that I knew just such a woman. I mentioned you to her, Sarah—your ability, your training, your passion. I said you were the very woman she sought.” Nehemiah gave a bland smile, as though his pronouncement had not just turned my life on its head.

  “You told her I was such a woman? What did she say?”

  “That she wishes you to be her scribe, for a trial period at first. And if you please her, which I have no doubt you shall, then the work is yours.”

  “She would have to live at the palace for such a post!” My father’s protest sounded loud in the quiet room.

  “That she would, Simeon.”

  “You want to take my daughter out of my home?”

  “What would you prefer? That she should remain in this house and spend her days in isolation? Without a single friendship, without companionship?”

  “And who in the palace is going to offer her all that the queen? Have you given a thought to her future? Who would ever want to marry her: a royal eunuch?”

  I would have laughed at my father’s biting humor if the tension between the two men hadn’t reduced me to a jumble of nerves. I sank into my cushion and bit my nails.

  “Royal servants are not in lifelong bondage. She’s more likely to meet a prospective husband at the palace than she would here. There are plenty of Jews in the service of the royal family. She could marry whomever she chooses,” Nehemiah countered.

  All this talk of marriage and husbands seemed to drive the conversation away from the topic that was of most interest to me. “I thought you said something about my being a scribe, my lord.”

  “A senior scribe. You would never have to cook again, or wash your own laundry, or dust and sweep. The queen’s servants take care of her staff’s general needs. And you could still see your father frequently since he works at the palace too.”

  I could not dig
est the immensity of Nehemiah’s words. I felt like I had swallowed one of the king’s dancers and she was busy turning summersaults in my belly. The thought of moving away from the only home I knew was overwhelming; the thought of reporting to the queen of Persia even more so. “I cannot do it,” I said. “It is too much.”

  My father heaved a sigh that seemed to come up from his toes.

  “Sarah, you can.” Nehemiah slashed his silk-clad arm through the air for emphasis. “I have worked with eunuchs and scribes over half my life and have seen none more gifted than you. The Lord has prepared you for this day.”

  Nehemiah’s words of praise settled over my heart like a pleasant balm. Did he really think me that talented? Then I remembered the plethora of other deficiencies I’d have to contend with. “I haven’t the faintest glimmer of palace protocol. No doubt I shall offend the queen before I even open my mouth, and after that, my doom is sure.”

  “Members of the queen’s retinue will give you whatever training you need. You will not be the first outsider to move into the palace who needs a bit of polish.”

  Among Nehemiah’s talents was an extraordinary ability for persuasion. Half of me thought the whole idea ludicrous. I could not imagine myself adjusting to such an inconceivable change. The other half began to catch the spark of my cousin’s enthusiasm. To live in the palace—to be surrounded by beauty and culture and new wonders. To occupy such a high position—one rarely enjoyed by a woman, no less. To have my abilities acknowledged in such a public fashion. These realities presented an irresistible pull, while fear pushed back with equal force. I sat frozen, caught between the two forces within myself.

  As if sensing my weakness, Nehemiah pressed his advantage. “Think of it Sarah: you shall have more tablets and scrolls than even you can count. Your own scribes will report to you and do your bidding. The queen will rely on you to administer her vast holdings. Many will depend on you; your life shall serve a purpose you could not have conceived.”

  “I … I don’t know what to say.”

  “This is a unique opportunity, Sarah—a once in a lifetime moment. Ponder this: what are the chances that the queen should read an obscure account about a female scribe? What are the chances that she should want such a scribe and express her desire in my presence? What are the chances that I should happen to know such a woman—to have intimate knowledge of her fidelity, her ability, and her wisdom—qualities most esteemed at the court? What are the chances of such a configuration of far-fetched circumstances?

  “None! There is no chance at work here, my dear. This is a door that the Lord holds open for you. Walk through it. He who has called shall also equip. Everything you lack shall be provided.”

  I hesitated. I could not proceed blindly for the sake of faith; I was not like Nehemiah. I needed human assurance. Human reasoning.

  “Tell me what holds you back,” he said.

  He already knew the answer, I reckoned. He merely wanted to hear me say it. “Fear,” I admitted, and then decided to open my heart to him. “Fear that I’ll fail. Fear that I will not fit into the palace and make myself and my father and you into a laughingstock.”

  “You may fail; I cannot deny it. But if you go through life making every decision based on what is safest, you will look back one day and discover that you have missed out on the best. Do you think you can reject the offer of the queen and return to your quiet existence without regrets? No, Sarah. Allowing fear to run your life will only rob you of your future.”

  I drew my knees up against my chest. “How long do I have to decide?”

  “Until tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Queen Damaspia is sending a servant to fetch you and your things in the afternoon.”

  I turned to my father. “What do you think, Father?”

  He shook his head. “You must choose. I know not.”

  In the end, in spite of Nehemiah’s advice, it was fear that determined my decision, not the Lord’s will. I was more afraid of turning down the queen’s offer and regretting it the rest of my life than I was of my own deficiencies. One fear beat the other in its urgings.

  A eunuch from the household of the queen showed up the afternoon of the following day to transport me and my meager belongings to the queen’s apartments in Persepolis.

  “Good-bye, Father,” I said, while the eunuch waited outside. If I had expected an emotional display, I would have been disappointed. But as my father had not held me in a tender embrace even once since the death of my mother, I was prepared for his awkward distance.

  He pulled on his beard. “Well, I’ll see you at the palace, no doubt.”

  “How shall I contact you?”

  “You can send me a message through one of the servants.”

  And that was the end of my life at home. I would have wept as I walked out, except that I was too occupied with thoughts of Persepolis to dwell on what I was leaving behind.

  The eunuch had strapped my wooden chest to the back of a cart. I climbed up next to him and covered my hair with a long scarf, hoping not to arrive at the palace looking dusty as well as provincial.

  Persepolis was famed as the most exquisite structure built by human hands that the world had ever seen. The palace, surrounded by walls as thick as the height of an ancient oak, was nestled on a terraced landscape so that it was visible from a great distance. Like everyone else living in the area, I had seen glimpses of it most of my life. I had even peeked within the entrance through the massive gates, which gaped open during the day. But to drive past the guards and into the wide avenue that led to the grounds of the palace itself was a heady experience.

  My father traveled this path every day and had grown accustomed to the stunning sculptures and reliefs carved on every surface, the tall columns that seemed to hold up the heavens.

  For me, however, each sight was new and awe inspiring. We had entered through the Gate of Xerxes, an imposing portico made of carved limestone. On either side stood two giant statues of winged bulls. I almost fell backwards into the cart trying to see to the top of them. The marble that covered the winding driveway was more luxurious than the floor inside my childhood home. On either side of us majestic cypress trees lined the road. The heady scent of thousands of white and purple hyacinth blossoms made my head spin.

  The Gate of Xerxes was the entrance closest to the main royal stables. The eunuch left the cart and donkey in one of the larger stalls housing royal carriages and carts, and we continued our journey on foot.

  As we left the marble courtyards and wide limestone staircases rising to stupefying heights, wall friezes gave way to silver, ivory, and ebony carvings; gold, lapis lazuli, and carnelian details covered many surfaces, as if to blind visitors by the overwhelming display of riches at every step. It seemed impossible that human hands could have wrought such luxury—such immensity.

  Another wonder that struck me that first day was the lack of foul odors. The whole atmosphere of the palace seemed saturated with perfumes. I learned later that palace engineers had installed covered drainpipes underground to carry sewage away from its grounds.

  To any observer that may have caught a glimpse of me, I would have seemed a callow outsider. I doubt I closed my mouth for the length of time it took us to walk from the stables to the women’s quarters.

  My guide delivered me to a cramped, windowless room and informed me that I would be sharing my quarters with three other women, also servants of Queen Damaspia, who were currently occupied with their work.

  I sank on the carpeted floor and looked about me. Even this small place, out of the way and created for servants, held more luxury than my childhood home. The walls were painted a faint blue and two plain columns stood at each side of the door. Shiny green tiles covered the floor where the carpet ended. Rolled against a wall rested four sets of mattresses and bedding; someone had clearly prepared for my coming.

  I was wondering what I was supposed to do next when a woman with curled hair, dressed in crisp linen g
arments, appeared at my door.

  “I am the queen’s senior handmaiden. She has assigned me to welcome you.”

  Was I supposed to bow to her? Should I introduce myself? Was she considered my social equal or was I expected to address her as a superior? I felt the weight of my own ignorance crushing me.

  My visitor frowned as she examined me from head to foot. Flustered, I scratched the side of my face nervously, hot under such an unflinching evaluation.

  “That won’t do.” She knocked my fingers away from my face. “When you come before the queen, there will be no scratching, no fidgeting, no picking, no coughing, no speaking unless you are spoken to. And don’t even think about blowing your nose. Do I make myself clear, scribe?”

  That was only the beginning of my training. For eight days I was deluged with more information than my father had poured into me in eight years. And this merely prepared me for my first interview with the queen.

  Damaspia, the only lawful wife of King Artaxerxes, was not what I expected. When later I grew more familiar with royal practices, I’d learn to appreciate how understated her court was. She expected few honors, though she was due every form of them.

  Not many people were present in her chamber when I was ushered in for my first meeting. I had been bathed so thoroughly I doubt even the angels could smell cleaner. But no amount of soap could hide the coarse fabric of my garment or the rough edges of my manners. If she noticed, she made no mention.

  Damaspia was the most beautiful creature I had ever set eyes on. Even clad in a simple long linen garment with no jewelry, she took one’s breath away. Although she was past the first flush of youth, her skin remained taut and her fashionably tall figure retained its willowy charm. Everything about her was narrow; her waist; her nose; her fingers—everything except her lips and eyes, which were both wider than most people’s. Her hair, unlike mine, curled naturally and had been rolled and tucked under with gold combs so that it looked far shorter than it was. The cerulean blue gaze rested on me and she gestured for me to approach.