Jewel of Persia

by White, Roseanna M.

  Her husband had dressed up peasants before. Amestris took no issue with the pearls on her throat, with the silver on her arm. Something else about this girl, though, set her teeth on edge.

  She took a step toward the Jewess, then another. Were it not for the awkwardness of her babe-heavy stomach, she would have demonstrated what true grace was—something this base-born wench could never know.

  The girl set her head in an angle of deferment, but her eyes . . . they did not seek the ground, carried no fear.

  Amestris stopped a few feet away. “You have much to learn, concubine. Do you think you are special because of the way my husband looks at you?”

  “I think I am nothing.” Yet the humility was underscored by iron.

  The boil of blood snapped and sizzled. “Were you not cautioned to stay away from me?”

  Now the wench’s brows lifted. Such insolence. “And so I have, my queen.”

  “You say from a step away.”

  “Where my husband left me. I feared it would be rude to leave without greeting when I saw you, but if you wish, I shall go at once.” She lifted an arm and motioned toward the garden’s entrance.

  Amestris’s gaze narrowed on the flash of silver on her biceps, and her hand whipped out to grab the girl’s arm. “What is this?”

  “I—”

  “Silence.” She tugged the wretch closer, shoved her sleeve out of the way, and hissed when she saw the twin lions’ heads on the torc. “You dare to steal from the king? Next time, take something not given him by my hand. Did you think no one would recognize the gift I commissioned for his birthday feast? Stupid Jewess.”

  The girl’s eyes flashed, but not with guilt or rebellion. She swallowed. “I did not realize it was a gift from your blessed hand, my queen. I will return it to the king the next time I see him.”

  A red haze drifted over Amestris’s vision. He had given it to her, the faithless dolt, given her gift to this slave. She ought to have the girl’s arm cut off to show them the price for such audacity. She ought to have a knife plunged through the harlot’s heart for daring to steal the king’s. She ought to—

  The air heated, the red over her eyes blazed a white so hot Amestris gasped and dropped the girl’s arm, stumbled back a step. When she blinked, her vision wavered. The Jewess stood as she had a moment before, but something had changed. Her shadow had lengthened to nearly half again what it was before, had broadened. It looked . . . masculine.

  Demons. Amestris took another step back and snarled. “Enemy of Ahura Mazda! No servant of Angra Mainyu will live under my roof.”

  Through the girl’s confusion shone the authority of the uncreated evil one. “I am a servant of none but Jehovah.”

  Amestris spat. “Call him what you may, slave. He is still the enemy of my god.”

  The wretch arched that insolent brow again. “That only speaks to the nature of whatever devil you serve.”

  Amestris rested a hand on the curve of her stomach. “You make a grave error by opposing me. You are nothing but a harlot with a flimsy contract, easily severed.” She lunged forward, gripped her arm again, and tore the lion torc from her.

  The girl grimaced and covered the rising welt of where the lion bit her. But she made no protest. Perhaps she recognized the fire of Ahura Mazda when she saw it blazing from an enemy’s eyes.

  Amestris stepped back again, her chest heaving. “Get out of my sight.”

  Her chin edged up instead of tucking to her chest. When her hand fell from her arm, Amestris gasped to see the welt had vanished already. The work of the demons, no doubt.

  The fool offered a mocking smile. “As the queen wishes.” She turned leisurely to the path that would lead to her pathetic closet.

  Amestris’s hand fisted around the torc. At least the harlot was taking her demon with her. She could almost glimpse it, the shimmer of an outline around the girl, taller and wider. It warped the light, made the image of the concubine waver.

  The babe inside her leapt. Perhaps he, too, sensed the presence of their nemesis. She covered the bulge in her stomach with a firm hand. “Rest, blessed one. I will not let her near you.”

  Fury bubbled in her throat. How dare the king bring that creature here? She had always known he was an idiot, more concerned with his own pleasure than the good of his family. But this—this was too much.

  She spun back toward the private entrance to her suite of rooms, paying no mind to the servants that surged around her. Not until she had gained her chamber and halted in the center of the room. Then she narrowed her gaze on one of her eunuchs. “You—bring Haman to me.”

  “Yes, mistress.” He bowed and sprinted back out.

  She looked down at the torc still clutched in her hand. With a curse, she hurled it against the wall. “Wine—now. And where is the fruit I requested? Would you beasts have this prince inside me starve while I await the start of the feast?”

  Food and drink appeared on the table, but Amestris was not calm enough to eat. It would churn into wormwood in her stomach—she must see this taken care of first.

  What would the god have her do? She could work to nullify any influence the girl had over Xerxes, but that would take time. Months, even years. Usually she was patient with such schemes, and confident enough in the knowledge that her husband’s attention was fickle.

  This one was different, though. She had seen it with her own eyes while they frolicked like adolescents in the garden. This was not his usual, short-lived affair. There was more to it.

  The Jewess would not be so easily relegated to oblivion.

  What then?

  She paced from one end of her suite to the other, then beckoned her most trusted handmaiden to her.

  The girl stepped close. “What may I get for you, mistress?”

  “Hemlock. I want it put in that Jewess’s food this very night—her girl will take a tray to her. Escape notice if possible, but bribe whomever you must if you are seen. When my husband discovers her dead, I will not have him realize it is on my order.”

  The maid dipped her head. “Shall I slip some into the room of another wife to cast suspicion her way?”

  “Yes. Whichever was his favorite before this one.” She waved the girl away and sat to await Haman. If anyone would be her ally in this plot against the Jewess, it would be him.

  One of the maids slipped the torc onto the table, and Amestris tasted fury anew. Ah, well. Before the night was out, Xerxes would learn that betrayal cut both ways.

  ~*~

  Kasia looked again over her shoulder. She could have sworn someone stood behind her, but each time she looked, she found nothing. Though this felt unthreatening, it must still be residual unease from her encounter with Amestris.

  Remembering the queen brought a fresh chill to her spine. Had Amestris insulted her alone, Kasia would have accepted her opinions without complaint. But to attack her God?

  She shook her head. The Persian Empire was renowned for its tolerance of other religions, had even encouraged her people more than once—Xerxes’ grandfather releasing the Jews from captivity was a perfect example—but clashes were inevitable when monotheistic religions collided.

  Amestris believed her Ahura Mazda was the one and true god. Kasia knew Jehovah owned that title. She had occasionally wondered if perhaps they were two different names for the same being, but the queen had succeeded in convincing her otherwise.

  Her soul had recognized its enemy.

  For an hour she sat at her loom and took up her weaving. For an hour she prayed for God’s protection, for his presence to blanket the palace, for his strength to fill her. For an hour her fingers moved with confidence. But when her meal was brought in and she ceased her prayers, her hands shook.

  The tray was silver, as were the bowls with her food. The rhyton of wine was rimmed in gold. The meat was covered in a sauce she could not name, the grain baked into a beautiful loaf, the fruit exotic, the wine sweet and strong.

  All looked like sand.

 
“Is it not to your liking, mistress?” Desma asked with wrinkled brow. “I can send it back and get you something else.”

  And appear ungrateful. “No, it is fine.” She sat, even reached for the wine.

  Her stomach clenched, and she tasted bile. In front of her eyes dropped a hazy veil and on her spirit weighed a desperate need to commune with her Lord. She pushed away from the table and stumbled over to the multi-colored rug under one of the windows. Sinking to her knees was not enough, so she stretched prostrate on the ground.

  “Mistress?” Voice alarmed, Desma dropped down beside her. “What is wrong? Do you need a physician? A magi?”

  “No.” Never in her life had her insides vibrated with this urgent need to pray. In her father’s house, her faith had been relaxed and easy—here in the palace it seemed to demand every ounce of her being. Was this how it had been for the great prophet Daniel a century ago? For his friends Azariah and Mishael and Mordecai’s ancestor Hananiah?

  She was no prophet. But if spending her days in prayer was what Jehovah required in return for his presence, then she would lie on this rug indefinitely.

  “Mistress?”

  “I must fast and pray, Desma. There is no need for alarm, but I . . . I must. Please go see to your own meals now. I will need nothing further tonight.”

  After a moment of silence, feet shuffled out the door. But Desma sat on the corner of the rug, and Theron took up his protective stance against the wall.

  The closest she would get to solitude. So be it.

  Time washed away, all her senses focused on supplication. She saw only the ever-shifting lights behind her closed eyes, smelled only the sweet fragrance of prayers, heard only the whisper of the Spirit’s wind.

  She prayed for her husband. She prayed for herself. She prayed for the queen. She prayed for Esther and Mordecai, for her parents and siblings. She prayed for the children she may someday have. She prayed for Jasmine, for her servants, for the coming war.

  Then her door opened and hurried feet pounded into her room. Leda fell to her knees before Desma. “The food—it was poisoned. The dog I fed a bite too has become paralyzed, his breathing slow and hard. Hemlock.”

  A chill danced over Kasia’s back. She sat up and looked from one maid to the other.

  Desma’s mouth was agape. “How did you know, mistress?”

  She shook her head.

  Desma swallowed hard, her eyes wide. “Your God watches over you. If you would share him with your servant, I would learn to pray to him as well. For your sake.”

  Kasia nodded, even smiled. It would seem she had another true friend in the palace.

  She dared not count her enemies.

  Ten

  Darius cuffed his brother on the side of the head with a laugh. “Hystaspes, you make me late. Go bother Mother.”

  The ten-year-old lunged at him with a mighty roar. “I am a lion! You must fight me off, Darius. What if you get attacked by a lion on your way to Greece? They have them in one of the mountain passes, you know. My tutor told me of them today.”

  Hence why he had been fending off these lion attacks all afternoon. Yesterday it had been bears. What would come tomorrow? Crocodiles? He flipped the boy off his back, careful to help him land gently. “There, lion, you are defeated. Now stay that way. Father wants me at the feast.”

  Hystaspes scowled and rested his elbows on his knees. “It is unfair. Why do you get to meet all the dignitaries while I am expected to eat in the nursery? I am a man too.”

  Darius arched a brow. “Amytis and Rhodogune would miss you.”

  The boy made a face. “Girls are so dull.”

  Darius laughed and tousled Hystaspes’ hair. “If you were a man, you would not think so.”

  The boy wrapped his arms around Darius’s legs and held on tight. “Take me with you. I will hide under a rug if I must, but please do not send me back to Mother. She was raving to Haman about some Jewess and will be in a sour temper all evening, then leave for her feast. And I do not want to go to the nursery!”

  Darius’s heart tripped at the mention of the new concubine, but he pushed her image away. “Then go find some of our other brothers to play with. What of Parham?”

  “He got in trouble, and his mother told him he may not play this evening. Please?”

  Darius sent his eyes to the dimming skies. “You can come with me as far as the hall, but then it is up to you to stay out of the way and hidden from Father’s eyes.”

  The boy leapt off with a whoop of victory. “Yes! Thank you, Darius. I will be invisible as a specter, I promise.”

  Darius straightened his brightly colored tunic and gave his brother a light push, just for the point of it. “Hurry. Hopefully the new guests will still be presenting their gifts, and I will not have missed anything important.”

  With Hystaspes dogging his heels, Darius sped to the ceremonial palace where the new guests would be received. At least he was not the only late arrival—Haman rushed up the steps ahead of them.

  Darius looked down at his brother. “Why was mother talking to Haman about the Jewess? Did you hear anything?”

  Hystaspes shrugged. “They stopped when I came in.”

  “Hmm.” He jogged up the endless stone steps and passed through the first of the columns when he realized his brother had stopped. “Hystaspes!”

  The boy stood with head craned back. “I have never noticed before that those are griffins up there. Have you ever seen a griffin, Darius? In the wild, I mean?”

  His tutor obviously needed to work a little harder. “They are mythical, you blockhead. Are you coming or not?”

  “Coming, coming.”

  Darius led the way into the great reception hall. Its ceilings soared high overhead, precious stones embedded within the cedar. The black marble columns gleamed and reflected the low light of the sun like a hundred mirrors. Under his feet stretched a carpet as long as the hall, its pattern an intricate mosaic of every color. He motioned his little brother into the shadows and took a moment to survey the gathering.

  All around him his father’s military commanders were gathered into tight groups. At the front of the chamber the throne dominated on its step. Father still sat, scepter in hand, and smiled down at the visitors before him. One carried a huge gold bowl, another a length of rolled textile.

  Excellent—they had not adjourned to the enclosed garden yet. He skirted the room until he had made his way to the front where several of his uncles waited.

  “Ah, Darius, there you are.” Artabanus smiled and motioned him to his side. “A bit late, are you not?”

  “I was waylaid by a ferocious lion.”

  His father’s uncle loosed a rich laugh. “Was the lion named Hystaspes?”

  “How did you guess?” Darius looked toward the back of the hall but could not see his brother. Good.

  An unmistakable shadow fell over him. “I am glad to see you emerged from the attack with your limbs intact, my son.”

  Since laughter coated his father’s voice, Darius smiled up at him. “I wrestled the beast into submission with my bare hands.”

  “An able warrior indeed.” Father nodded to one of his attendants, and a moment later a trumpet call rang out. All eyes on him, Xerxes raised his arms wide. “Welcome, noble guests and esteemed friends, to the final night of our feast. Let each man sit where he will and drink his fill—to the garden!”

  A cheer went up. On most nights, no one could drink more than the king, and all was ordered at his command. He must be in a prime mood. Persia had Kasia the Jewess to thank, Darius suspected.

  A sigh snuck past his lips as he followed his father to the garden. Xerxes was not just the king—he was the epitome of what a man should be. One of the tallest men at court, his figure was well hewn from years of military training. Though he passed most of his days on the throne, he could wield a spear or loose an arrow with the skill of any Immortal. He held his authority with a firm fist but a ready smile. He was fair, he was affable, and when his
temper snapped, usually without much warning, he was as fearsome as the god.

  Darius would be like that. A man of reputation, one who had earned respect through war and wise counsel. He would prove his bravery in battle, he would increase his strength through training.

  Maybe then Artaynte would greet his advances with something other than laughter. She would realize that his being heir apparent was in fact not his only attribute, as she had accused a week ago. Those enticing lips would turn up in welcome instead of mockery. She would realize how blessed she was to have his heart.

  If he asked his father for her, Xerxes would arrange a marriage with a snap of his finger. A better match could not be made—she was his cousin, her blood pure and strong. Masistes would be ecstatic to know his daughter would reign as queen someday. If Darius asked, she would have no choice but to wed him. She would be his.

  But she would not be his. She would be like Darius’s mother, the wife with all the honor but no affection for her husband. That was not the marriage he wanted.

  Better first to earn her love. Right now she was but a girl who saw him as a boy, one she had known all her life. But once he returned a hero from Greece, that would change. She would see him differently, would come to love him. Then he would ask his father for her hand, and their marriage would be celebrated through the whole world.

  Xerxes settled beside him with lifted brows. “I know that look. What lovely curves are you dreaming of, my son?”

  Darius felt his face flush and cleared his throat. It took firm resolve to keep from darting his gaze to his uncle, who sat on a couch at his father’s other side. “None worth mentioning. What of you? Is your pleasant mood thanks to that exquisite concubine we met the other day?”

  The Jewess was a far safer subject than Artaynte, and thought of her had provided a welcome distraction over the past few days. Claiming such a creature was one of the benefits of being king. Concubines could be enjoyed and dismissed at will.

  Strange though . . . that flash in his father’s eyes spoke of involvement. Perhaps nothing was ever simple. “She pleases me well, yes.”