“Pythius is waiting for us,” Xerxes said.
He stood at the edge of the road, his stance stooped yet rigid. When they approached, his gaze swept over her and his eyes went wide. “I did not believe it when they told me you were up and about already, lady. But had I not seen you with my own eyes yesterday . . .”
“I know.” She gripped the hand he held out. “Thank you, my friend, for all you did to help. I would have died had Jehovah not sent you.”
Xerxes growled under his breath and released her other hand.
Pythius squeezed her fingers. “I wish he would have sent me sooner, so that I could have caught you before you fell.” He gave her a tired smile and let go of her hand, then turned to Xerxes. “My lord. You have become a true friend these last few months, and I am grateful for this chance to know you.”
Her husband smiled, but it fell short of his eyes. “Likewise, Pythius. Your generosity to me and my troops will live on long after you. I only sorrow that now we must part.”
“The army is no place for an old man like me.” Pythius’s mouth wobbled up into an anxious smile. “I would ask a favor, my lord.”
“After all you have done for us? Anything.”
Pythius squared his shoulders. “Thank you. As you know, all five of my sons are set to march with you. I would ask that you release the eldest from military service, so that he might care for me and his mother in our old age.”
Kasia’s breath caught. The request sounded reasonable to her, but obviously Xerxes disagreed. His fingers curled into his palm. “Why would you ask this? Victory is guaranteed.”
“It is war. Even the side that wins will suffer losses—I fear my sons will be among them.” His laugh sounded rusty and afraid. “Can you blame an old man for wanting one son left at home to carry on his name? You yourself leave your heir behind—”
“Which was well established before this.” Xerxes’ eyes flashed with fury. “I did not change my mind out of cowardice when the darkness fell from the sky.”
A decade fell off Pythius’s face when he lifted his chin. “Sometimes fear is a sign of wisdom. How you can stand before your men and claim the darkness was a good omen—”
“Do you dare speak against the god? It was a promise of victory!”
“The only promise I felt yesterday was when I escaped your god in the presence of Kasia’s.”
For a moment, Kasia feared Xerxes would strike him. “Curse you, Pythius! I expect doubt from the low-born rabble, but not from you. If I release your son, everyone will know you asked out of fear and will succumb to their own. Yet here you are, proclaiming your doubt of the god and asking the impossible.”
“I only ask for one son.”
She had seen her husband angry countless times. Furious, disappointed. But all his frustrations over incompetence, all the ranting and fuming he was famous for dimmed in comparison to what burned now in his eyes.
Betrayal, underscored by pain. It turned his eyes dark and feral and made his muscles quiver. “Zethar. Bring Pythius’s eldest son.”
Pythius said nothing as the eunuch headed for a group of nearby men. Did he taste fear, as she did? She tried to swallow it down and stepped closer to Xerxes when she would rather have stepped away. “What will you do?”
His arm felt tense as stone when she put her hand on it. His gaze stayed trained on Pythius. “I held you up before all the world. Announced that your generosity was a sign of the god’s blessing.”
Pythius sucked in a long breath. “I know.”
“I take all my family with me, with no guarantees that any will come home again. Yet a slave asks for his son?”
Pythius shut his eyes.
Kasia did too, and rested her forehead against the unforgiving muscle of her husband’s arm. Still, she heard the approaching footsteps and the curious greeting of Pythius’s son.
A tremor coursed through Xerxes’ arm and shook Kasia all the way to her soul. “Your king has already given one son in this effort.” His voice emerged steady. “Now you will do the same. Zethar, have this man cut in two and staked to either side of the road. Let all the army see as they march past what happens to those who betray Persia.”
“Xerxes, no.” She wanted to scream it, wanted to throw herself in front of the condemned and beg for mercy. But she could find no breath, and the world spun when she tried to move. Yet again she felt herself falling. Maybe this time the jagged ground would swallow her whole.
An arm caught her around the middle—her stomach rebelled. Dry heaves wracked her long after Xerxes lowered her to a rest at his feet. When she opened her eyes, Pythius was on his knees, head bowed, and his son was being led silently away.
Xerxes crouched beside her, but she averted her face. “How could you do this?”
“Better they fear the wrath of their king than think they have lost the favor of their god.” He forced her to a sitting position and studied her face. Fury still sparked in his eyes. It left little room for compassion. “You are unwell. If you would rather remain in Sardis, you may.”
He stood and strode away, leaving her to sway upon the rocky soil. Her gaze tracked to that plot of newly turned ground. It must hold her heart as well as her son, for surely there was nothing left inside her.
Pythius staggered to his feet and moved to her, pulled her up. A sheen of moisture covered his eyes. “Why does seeking your God above his cost us our sons, Kasia?”
She could only shake her head.
“I should have known not to ask. I should have realized . . .”
“How could you have anticipated that?”
Nostrils flaring, he patted her arm. “Go with him.”
Why? Why go and be denied both her husband and her Lord? She looked toward the tiny grave again.
Pythius turned her face with a firm finger. “Your place is among the living, daughter. Go with your husband. You are his heart, and who knows what he might do without you by his side.”
Her gaze swung to the wagon, where Xerxes stood, back to the world. Something twisted inside her. She gave Pythius a swift hug and left him.
Jehovah God, do not abandon us yet.
Her husband gripped the wooden side of the wagon with white knuckles. Slipping up behind him, she slid her arms around his waist—he felt like a statue.
He pulled in a labored breath. “You should stay. Your heart is too fragile for war.”
“You are my heart, Xerxes.”
He said nothing, but he turned his head so she could see his profile.
From ahead of them, blood-curdling screams pierced the air. She knew that within minutes, everyone would know about the king’s order, the king’s wrath.
Only she saw the single tear escape his eye.
~*~
Susa, Persia
Mordecai rubbed the back of his head. The pain had gone when the burden to pray eased, but the memory . . . . For a long moment he stared at the earthen ceiling. Did Kasia live, or were the injuries too extensive, even without the pain?
He closed his eyes and whispered his wonder to the Almighty. Peace washed over him, though that did little to answer his question. It could mean she was out of danger—or resting in the bosom of Abraham.
Either way, he had seen the power of the Lord yesterday. Glory be to God. “What should I pray for today, Jehovah?”
An answer formed in his mind, but before he could put words to it, a knock sounded. Esther stepped in, relief sweeping over her face. “Good morning, cousin. You look better.”
“I am.” He sat and dredged up a smile. “I am sorry I frightened you yesterday, little one.”
She smiled, but it shook around the edges. “I am only glad to see you improved. The one you prayed for—she is . . . ?”
He sighed. “I know not. Either at peace or healed. Esther—I cannot thank you enough for tending me yesterday. I realize how strange it must have seemed to you, but it was necessary.”
Her smile steadied. “Of that I have no doubt. Are you hungry?”
“In a moment. First, would you pray with me that Jehovah goes with the army? I have the feeling he is angry with them.”
“Of course.” She came in and sat on the floor beside him.
They joined hands, bowed heads. And prayed that the Lord would go before their friends and neighbors who marched with the king.
Twenty-One
Troy, Anatolia
Kasia bounced Lalasa’s younger daughter upon her knee. The other two concubines sat on opposite sides of their shared tent, glaring at one another.
“You look like a sheep with you hair like that, Lalasa,” Diona said.
Lalasa rolled her eyes. “Our husband likes it this way.”
Diona scowled at the cloud of Lalasa’s ebony hair as a maid wove gold strands through it. “You will not be called tonight anyway.”
“Were you not complaining an hour ago about how often you must go to him? Though how you expect to get with child again otherwise . . .” Lalasa lifted her chin and patted the small bump of her stomach.
Diona folded her arms over her chest. “At least I have a son.”
“Ah yes, one screaming son. The king can barely tolerate him. I am amazed he can stand to be near you.”
Kasia sighed and lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. She pressed a kiss to the little girl’s head and placed her upon her feet, then stood.
The other concubines looked her way when she did. She gave them a tight-lipped smile. “I ought to prepare for the meal too. You both look beautiful.”
Lalasa’s expression shifted to regret. “Oh, Kasia, we did not mean to upset you. Stay, please. We will not speak of children—”
“It is not that.” But her eyes darted to the three little ones. Diona’s son had taken his first toddling steps yesterday. He would soon be chasing after Lalasa’s daughters.
Diona shook her head. “Forgive us our bickering, Kasia. It is the only way we can express the frustration.”
“She is right.” Lalasa patted a dark hand to the pouf of her hair. “We could tell the king how difficult he has been to please since we left Sardis, but you are the only one who can get away with such impudence.”
“And were we you, he would not be so difficult to please.” Diona let out a gusty exhale. “It has been two months, you are surely healed. Perhaps we should just send her in our place one night, Lalasa, and force his hand. The whole world would thank us.”
Kasia forced a smile but turned toward the tent flap. “I will see you both at the meal.”
Her servants around her, she stepped out into the warm afternoon sunlight and let her gaze wander to the knoll nearby. The walls of the once-great Ilium protruded from the ground in some places, but in others nature prevailed.
“Mistress? Where are you going?”
She ignored Theron and wandered up the hill. Only once she stood in the middle of a broken square did she halt. Directly before her stretched stone upon stone of a wall, but it tumbled into oblivion a few feet in either direction.
Had this been a room in Priam’s palace? The hall where he ruled, perhaps, or the bed chamber where Paris had held Helen as his captive lover? Had the Spartan queen seen the masses of Greek warriors swarming the shores and wished she could put a halt to the war that stretched from year into decade? Did she miss Menelaus, her lawful husband? Or did she go willingly with the Trojan prince who had stolen her from her home?
Kasia drifted toward the tallest stretch of the wall, high as her shoulder. The Greeks had done an excellent job of razing the city—and where they stopped, time and weather had taken over. So little remained to tell the tale of a nation. She lifted a hand and rested it on the warm top of the stone, rough and dry, then trailed it over the shadow-cooled side.
Jehovah God, let me not crumble and slip silently into eternity. Let me not be destroyed and forgotten. Preserve me, Lord.
So often these past two months she had felt like an echo. She spent her days being lulled into a daze by the rocking of her wagon. The sounds of countless marching feet and stomping hooves, of men shouting and laughing, became no more than meaningless rumbles. Her mind circled from observation to vain longing to prayer and back again.
A river, drunk nearly dry by the army.
Her baby, under the earth.
Esther. Dear Lord, be with her.
Xerxes, beside her in the wagon. A kiss, a smile . . . then his attention would shift to a commander.
Her baby, who should have been growing large and cumbersome inside her.
Abba and Ima. Dear Lord, bless them.
The rumble of thunder in the distance—or was it the wagon, hitting a rocky patch of terrain?
A vision of a newborn, hair dark and damp, mouth open and squalling for milk.
Zechariah. Dear Lord, draw him to you.
Night on the horizon, looming lonely and cold.
The feel of arms around her, lips upon her—a dream, only a dream.
The empty future. Dear Lord, go with me.
“Mistress, get down. Please.”
She glanced at Desma’s pleading face. The stone of the wall was warm under her legs, a stray twig from an ambitious vine pricked her hand. She did not recall climbing up, but she dared not admit that. They would force her back to the unrelenting solitude of her tent. Instead she smiled. “It is sturdy enough.”
Theron shook his head. “I hear someone approaching. We must go.”
She did not want to go. Out here the sun could wash over her. In her tent lurked only shadows that promised a lifetime of the same.
No, not a lifetime. A year, then they would be back in Susa. Xerxes would have his victory, and so he would no longer fear touching her. She would be his wife again, she would feel the blood rush through her veins once more. She would awake from this stupor. She would feel. She would live.
What a vague hope. She sighed and looked in the direction of the voices. Just as likely, this drifting would create a vast sea between them. They would not be able to reach each other, to touch each other. Love would be but a memory. So brief. So taunting.
Dear Lord, let it not be so.
His laugh rang out, and a moment later Xerxes emerged from behind a piece of wall a stade away. One thing, at least, had not changed. Her heart still galloped every time she saw him. Love and hope still fought against the fog when he looked her way.
Like he did now. She imagined he smiled, though she could not tell from here. Perhaps he did not even know it was she—she probably appeared no more than a wisp atop the wall. Still, he came her way, his strides lengthening until he drew away from his companions.
Yes, he smiled, and the gleam in his eye almost convinced her that life was as it should be. “How did I know, when I saw the lovely figure of a woman atop a dangerously decrepit wall, that it would be you?”
Her lips curved in response to the tease in his voice. “You are a man of wisdom, my love.”
“And you a woman of predictable daring.” He stretched his arms up to grip her waist and swung her down to the ground.
She expected him to release her and step away, as he did when helping her from the wagon. But his arms came around her, and he pulled her close. His lips claimed hers—not in the perfunctory kiss that had become normal, but hungrily, deeply.
Oh, how she wanted him back. To tangle in his arms, to lose herself in his kiss. How she wished he would whisk her away, ignoring all the men waiting for his advice. She wanted her husband. She wanted Xerxes.
All he had given her since Sardis was the king.
He broke the kiss and rested his forehead on hers like he used to do. “I have kept you confined to your wagon too long. I miss catching you on the brink of danger.”
“If this is my reward, I must find a few more walls to climb. Or perhaps I can swim across the Hellespont. Scale a mountain.”
He chuckled and kissed her again, then tucked her to his side and drew her along as he returned to his companions. “Are you enjoying Troy, my love?”
She
hummed. They had been in the region for several days, moving slowly and listening each night to a portion of the famous Iliad. This morning Xerxes insisted they all travel to the site of the citadel, so that he might see where Priam ruled. “It has certainly sparked my imagination.”
“I know. I keep looking out expecting to see Agamemnon’s forces on the beaches, their triremes moored behind them.”
She relished the feel of laughter tickling her throat. “I was thinking more of Helen. Do you think she loved Paris, or did she miss Menelaus?”
“What a girlish, romantic question.” He dug his fingers into her side, and she obliged him by squealing.
“Well, a decade-long war was fought over this woman—”
“Over the theft of her,” he corrected with a lopsided grin. “It could have as easily been over Odysseus’s faithful dog, had he been stolen.”
She let out the expected sound of protest and raised her chin. “Here I had been siding with Menelaus, thinking how sorely he must miss his wife, to go to such effort to get her back. Perhaps I ought to cheer on Paris instead. He obviously loved her enough to steal her.”
“It need not be love that motivated him either—it could have been the desire to possess the most beautiful woman in the world.”
His grin said he jested, so she smiled back. But the fog crept close again.
“We shall hear the end this evening. Perhaps Homer will address the question of love for you, sweet one. Although if I recall, it is more about desecrating remains and the choice between long life or a glorious death . . .”
The concerns of men. Kasia pinned her smile in place by sheer force of will and looked out over the ruins. “I look forward to the minstrel’s song. He is a talented musician.”
“The best.” They paused beside a perfectly preserved well. Xerxes peered down into it. “And the story inspires a man to live tall and die proud.”
A soldier Kasia did not recognize stepped forward. “We ought to offer libations, my lord, to the heroes who fell here. The magi could prepare suitable sacrifices to honor them.”
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