Jewel of Persia

by White, Roseanna M.

  “Esther.” He touched her cheek to bid her look at him—something he had done often enough over the years. This time when she met his gaze, she could almost convince herself she saw awareness in his eyes. Almost. “One over-aggressive dolt should not ruin your special day. Take it as affirmation of the beautiful young woman you have become.”

  She attempted a smile—he did, after all, remember it was her birthday—but it fizzled out quickly. “It is not only that, though it is a perfect example. When he approached me, I had no clever words to save myself. Why can I not be like Kasia? You ought to have heard her that day the Persian man approached her, right before her death. She was witty and smart. She was fearless, while I cowered behind her.”

  His thumb brushed over her cheek and set her heart to hammering. “You were a child, Esther, and Kasia . . . she was too reckless for her own good. It is better to escape quietly where you may.”

  “Her recklessness earned her admiration and respect, and the man let her go—with a romantic story no less. My cowering did not help with escape at all.”

  “You did not cower.”

  “Sometimes I feel as though I live my life in fear, Zech. You would not understand that.” She turned away, fearful even now that she would see distaste in his eyes, and started for home again. “Always afraid those I love will leave me. That I will not be what I ought. That when the days of my life are fulfilled, I will have no story to tell.”

  “Esther—”

  “Kasia may have died too soon, but still she lived. She had suitors eager to marry her even though she had no dowry. She had a stranger who fell a little in love with her after one interaction.”

  “And she had fears.” Zechariah leapt into her path. “She feared letting you down. She feared not being able to show you that life could be full, even with loss shadowing you. I imagine when she was being carried away, she feared how devastated you would be.”

  She sucked in a breath only to heave it out again. Unbidden, memories crashed through her. Kasia, outside in the kitchen that last day, joking about suitors. Kasia, searching her house for Esther’s bracelet. Kasia, so full of life and love for others.

  Kish, face ashen as rain poured over him, with the news that Kasia had sneaked off to the river and had not returned. The panic, the fear, the tears that rivaled the monsoon.

  Zechariah the next morning, telling her to face reality. Holding her, drying her tears, fetching the silver bracelet for her. As if that mattered after losing the only true friend she had ever known.

  His fingers encircled her wrist now, as if the same images flashed before his eyes. “You never wear your mother’s bracelet anymore.”

  “It was broken,” she said, gaze on his hand. It practically swallowed her wrist, and the skin was work-roughened. Nails chipped, cuticles uneven. Scratches marred his knuckles. Strong hands, honest hands. Oh, for them to hold her every day. “That was why it fell off.”

  “So get it repaired.” His voice was a low thrum, like the creak of wood warming in the sun.

  “Then it would not be the same bracelet my mother gave me.” And she would remember that last day, full of hope and fear, every time she put it on.

  He put a hand against her cheek, again urging her face up. She wanted to resist, knowing he would see how much she loved him, how much she wanted what he refused to give. But she looked up—and forgot how to breathe. His eyes had never gleamed so intensely for her before, he had never gazed at her like this, then glanced at her mouth. Surely he did not mean to kiss her—it must only be her overwrought imagination, so desperate for his attention. He had made his feelings—or lack of them—clear many a time.

  But they could change. He could realize she had grown up. Surely it was possible that this one thing might go right for her.

  He swallowed, then released her and took a step back.

  And that, she supposed, was the answer to that.

  ~*~

  Zechariah mentally cursed himself and took another step back for good measure. Still he was unsure what had happened. Memories had crowded him, and her pain, so sharp even after two years, had pierced him through. But never before had that made her seem like anything but a sister.

  It was not her. It could not be her—it was only that his mind had already been on dangerous matters, his senses already heightened. That was all.

  He cleared his throat and fought the urge to sprint away. “Come, we should hurry. I am late.”

  Her brows drew together, and she lifted her hands to clutch her elbows. Her basket swayed. “What were you even doing here, Zech? You are not dressed for work.”

  He bit back an angry defense and smiled. “I have a few measurements to take. Since there will be no labor involved, I thought I ought not drag shavings with me.”

  Her casual nod said she saw no reason to question him. But the caution in her eyes said she had noted the shift in his behavior.

  Jehovah have mercy, if he were not careful he could destroy her along with himself. Why had no one ever warned him that giving in to one sin would tempt him to others? He did not want to think of Esther like that. He would not. No matter how soft her skin, no matter how forcefully it struck him right now that her face was absolutely flawless.

  He would not.

  She looked away. “I can get myself home without incident from here.”

  A responsible friend would disagree and insist on seeing her home. But then, a responsible friend would not be every bit the threat to her that the stranger had been. Given his thoughts at the moment, she would be safer without his company. “Very well. I will see you at the festivities tonight.” Hopefully his grin looked as unconcerned and teasing as ever. “I have been working on your gift for months.”

  Her usual sweet smile curled her lips up, and she glanced at his face before turning away. “Have a good day. And Zechariah—thank you. For stepping in with the Persian.”

  He only trusted himself to nod, then he turned and hurried past the street he had found her on, to the next. Onward to the house that had become far too familiar and the back entrance that soured his stomach every time he used it.

  But the moment he stepped into the chamber, shame lost its footing. Ruana sat on her bed waiting for him. “There you are—I expected you a bit sooner.”

  He pulled his tunic over his head. “I ran into a friend who needed help.”

  “Always the hero. Now it is my turn to be saved—from my longings. I have missed you.”

  “It has only been a week.” But he pulled off his shoes and hurried to the bed.

  Best to lose himself quickly, before he could think too much on how unheroic he felt.

  Twenty-Five

  Malis, Trachis

  Xerxes paced to the end of the tent, then back again. His every muscle felt hard and tense, his blood running hot. He glanced at the scout he had sent out five days ago then at Demaratus, who still sat with infuriating surety.

  Arrogance, nothing but arrogance. Three hundred men. Three hundred men stood before the walls in the pass they called Thermopylae, refusing to budge. He spun on the scout. “Tell me again what you saw.”

  The man moistened his lips. “The Lacedaemonians stood along the wall, their weapons and armor at their feet. They exercised nude, then brushed their hair.”

  “Brushed their hair.” Xerxes glared at Demaratus.

  The Spartan smiled. “If they are going to die, they want to look their best.”

  “And die they shall, if they do not move from the pass. I have given them four days.”

  Damaratus sighed and his smile faded. “I warned you that the Spartans would fight. But once you get through them, you will encounter no other resistance.”

  Why, then, did they even bother? There was no question that they would be killed. “So be it. Send out the Medes and Cissians—and bring any prisoners back to me alive.”

  “There will be no prisoners.”

  Xerxes ignored him and left the shade of the tent. The summer sun beat down, bu
t with less intensity than his men were accustomed to. To them it would be like the finest of spring days. And this battle would be little more than an exercise.

  Three hundred men. Absurd. “Zethar, have my throne set up on the hill so I can watch the battle.”

  “Yes, master.” His eunuch turned halfway, then paused. “Will the king still be dining with Kasia this morning?”

  He looked at the hill that would give him the best viewpoint, at the troops that would have to be put in formation and marched to the pass. There was time. “I suppose.”

  Her presence might soothe the building anticipation. Then again, it could just as easily do the opposite. The round of her stomach was hard to ignore these days. And the more frustrated she got with him for refusing to acknowledge it, the more frustrated he got with her for not seeing why he needed to.

  They had already lost four hundred ships in the Hellespontine winds, crucial supply vessels among them. The Egyptians’ camels had been hunted by lions in the pass near the canal at Mount Athos. Fifteen more ships had been captured by the Greeks. He must ensure as few other losses as possible.

  Yet when he ducked into her tent she was, as always, on the floor in prayer. “Kasia, get up. I have no time for this today—the Medes and Cissians even now prepare to march on the pass.”

  She rose immediately—but the shadow in her eyes said his tone grated. Well, that was only fair. Her continual insistence on praying to a God that cared nothing for his campaign grated on him.

  Then she smiled, and he sighed. Perhaps the trouble lay not with her God—perhaps it lay in the fact that not one among his people were as faithful to Ahura Mazda as she to Jehovah. He opened his arms to her and gave her a kiss of greeting.

  When the babe in her stomach nudged him, he pulled away and frowned into Kasia’s grin. How far along was she now? She was larger than she had gotten with their son, and never had he felt the boy’s movement like this.

  Everyone knew she carried his babe, but none spoke of it since he refused to. He could see the strain of that in her eyes. Still, he could not regret it. Not if it saved her.

  “There is to be a battle, then?” She turned to where her servants had set out a meal for them and sat on her favorite cushion.

  “It is inevitable. We must have access to the pass.”

  Her hum sounded sad. “They will all be killed. That too is inevitable, but it is a shame. They are a noble people.”

  He sat beside her, gaze locked on her profile. Something in her face, in her tone . . . “Tell me you do not empathize with these arrogant rebels.”

  She turned peaceful eyes on him. “Can I not admire them for their dedication to their law, for their pursuit of honor? Seeing the line of them in front of that wall . . . it helps me understand the spirit of my eldest brother.”

  He tore off a piece of bread with more force than necessary. “Your brother would stand against my army?”

  “My brother would have been part of your army had our father allowed it. I never understood what drove Zechariah to learn to fight. I never imagined what our forefathers must have felt when surrounded by the Babylonian army. I do now.”

  “Oh, that is right.” He tossed the bread back down without tasting it. “Your father raised you to think I am a cruel oppressor, so obviously you take the side of the rebels.”

  She paused with her cup halfway to her mouth. “I may understand why they resist you, but I do not take their side.”

  Xerxes studied the angle of her chin, the gleam of her eyes, the straightness of her spine. “You actually believed all that nonsense Demaratus spouted about free men? You think it logical for them to fight to the death rather than preserving their lives by bowing to me?”

  “Logical? No.” She put her chalice down again. “But I think it faithful to what they believe.”

  He raised his wine to her in a mock salute. “Well, you are the expert on faith.”

  Her jaw clenched, she swallowed. Then she gave her usual grin. “Thank you for admitting it.”

  Xerxes sighed. She did not want to tease him out of his mood today, but still she tried. He ought to let himself be teased. “Forgive me, my love. I apparently have a bit of Darius in me—it pains me to see a battle on the horizon and know I must observe from a distance.”

  She slid closer to him and nestled into his side. “I did not mean to make you think I would wish the Spartans success. I may admire their bravery, but that falls far short of how proud I am of all you have accomplished.”

  “I know.” Or at least, he ought not waste time debating it. “Let us eat.”

  They did so in relative silence, and afterward his gaze fell on her stomach again. A small bump twitched the fabric of her chiton. He reached out to cover the movement with his hand before he could think better of it. The babe kicked again.

  Kasia let out a contented sigh but otherwise said nothing. Xerxes’ eyes slid shut. Perhaps silence was enough. There had been no problems, no threats from an angry god. Either Ahura Mazda did not care about a girl-child, or he was appeased by how little attention Xerxes had given it—or perhaps how little she had spoken of Jehovah lately. One or all approaches was working.

  Still. He could afford no risks today. “Sweet one, I need you to promise me something.”

  “What is it?”

  He opened his eyes and studied her. In some moments the beauty of her face still struck him, sucked the breath from his lungs. But most of the time he saw her, rather than her features. The passion that ignited his own. The love that lit her eyes whenever she looked his way. She was the only one of his wives who truly loved him, the man. But today he needed her to obey her king.

  “I appreciate the effort you have put into obeying me recently, Kasia. I expect you to do the same today. My men will face danger, and I know your instinct is to pray to your God. You must not.”

  He had no word to define the look in her eyes. Fear mixed with sorrow. Anger colored with dread. “Xerxes. That is like asking me not to think, not to breathe.”

  “At least keep off your rug. If you must pray, let no one know you do it.”

  Her lips pressed together. Rebellion brewed in her eyes. “I do not pray in public anyway, only the privacy of my tent.”

  “The god can still see you.”

  The babe nudged his hand again, no doubt in response to Kasia’s agitation. She drew in a long breath. “You would forbid me from seeking Jehovah entirely, if you could.”

  “Kasia.” He drew his hand away. “What care of Jehovah’s is this war? It belongs to the god.”

  “It is Jehovah’s concern because you are Jehovah’s concern. You are the caretaker of his chosen.”

  He shook his head and stood. “Your Jehovah has never spoken to me. Ahura Mazda has. And he has promised victory—by your own admission, your God led his chosen people to defeat.”

  She stood too. “Only because we had wandered from the faith.”

  “Then he can have no good in mind for me, as Persia is less faithful to him than Israel was.”

  Her lips quirked up. “More so than the Greeks, though—you have faithful Jews in your company.”

  He sighed. “I have made myself clear, and you will obey. No obvious prayers to your God.”

  She folded her arms over her chest, resting them on the mound of her stomach. “No obvious prayers.”

  “I would prefer, if you must pray about the battle, you pray to Ahura Mazda.”

  At that, she only blinked. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and strode for the throne his servants had set on the hill.

  Better to focus on the fight he could win.

  ~*~

  Persepolis, Persia

  Amestris halted at the garden’s entrance, her eyes not seeing the lush vegetation before her. Her ears did not hear the squeals of Artaxerxes or the impatient reply of her younger daughter, Rhodogune. Her soul—her soul felt the touch of the god.

  He had visited her often since the king’s ridiculous attempt to depose her. A wh
isper to let her know when to act. An image of a pointed finger in her mind to show her which direction to go. He had helped her gather the strands of power into her hands, to braid them into a sturdy rope.

  She did not need the king to be the queen. She could hang her enemies without his help. But still the god bade her pray for her estranged husband, that he would remain faithful to Ahura Mazda.

  News from Haman was encouraging. His attempt on the Jewess’s life may have failed—the witch must have a powerful demon watching over her, perhaps even Angra Mainyu himself—but at least the child had been stillborn. And according to Haman, relations between Xerxes and the Jewess had been strained ever since. It was only a matter of time before the scales fell from the king’s eyes.

  My god, let it be soon. Let him see that she is your enemy, and so the enemy of Persia. Hold tight to him, Ahura Mazda. Do not let him go.

  “Excuse me, my queen.”

  She focused on the servant bowing low before her. “What?”

  “The jewelry you commissioned has arrived. Shall I set it up in your chamber?”

  “Yes, yes. Go.” She shook her head and stepped into the garden, only to stop again when she saw the looks of accusation Hystaspes wore on his faces. “Why do you scowl?”

  Her son shifted a bit, and finally Hystaspes shook his head. “Why do you allow them to call you the queen again, Mother?”

  She lifted a brow that should have put the twelve-year-old in his place. Yet he only straightened his shoulders. She put a hand on her hip. “I see no one else with the title.”

  Hystaspes moistened his lips. “Father will be very angry.”

  “I do not see him here, either. Besides, he always repents of his rash behavior. He may not be able to change the law he made, but he will either find a way around it or let everyone quietly ignore it. It is his way.”

  Her son looked none too sure, and his doubt chafed. While he studied and played with blunted spears, she made the connections that would become his career. She burned incense and prayed blessings upon him. Any success he found would be thanks to her.