Jewel of Persia

by White, Roseanna M.

  The girl buried her grin in her mother’s leg. Esther turned to her servants. “I would like a few moments to speak to Kasia’s family. Please take my daughter with you.”

  One of the maidservants scooped up the girl with a tickle, then the mass of them bowed out and closed the door behind them. Esther released a pent-up breath. “How have you been, Zech?”

  Throat suddenly too tight to answer, he could only stand up again and nod.

  She moved to the bed. The resignation on her face confirmed that Kasia had looked exactly like this for the past two days. “I believe that was the first time I ever heard you pray.”

  That observation earned a breath of a laugh. “Mordecai and I have spent much time together these past years. He has taught me how to pray from the heart, and how to listen.”

  “Your sister has taught me the same. It is necessary, if one wants to remain faithful in this faithless place.” She blinked rapidly and wiped at her eyes. “The physicians can tell us nothing. But I have hope.” Yet her voice broke on the word.

  “There is always hope. Jehovah has performed bigger miracles for her than this would require.” He took Esther’s hand, but only so that he could urge her into the chair. And perhaps to test himself.

  Not so many tingles anymore. Not so much regret. It had been a long, busy five years since she took the crown.

  “I know.” She settled into the seat and wrapped her arms around her middle. “I will make sure someone tells the king you and your parents came. He will let no one but their children stay while he is here. I tried to speak with him yesterday. That did not go over so well.” She nodded to a large pottery jug on the table, missing one of its handles.

  He nodded, well able to imagine the king’s temper. But one thing he had not yet convinced his mind to picture was the king and queen together. Every time he had seen Xerxes over the years, it had been as Kasia’s husband. Not Esther’s.

  She drew in a shaky breath. “I have met her, you know. Quite a number of times now.”

  He blinked, then sighed. “Ruana?”

  “Mmm hmm. The first time was at one of my banquets for the wives of the court. I let myself feel superior when I realized who she was, even toyed with the idea of snubbing her so that others would have to do the same.” Her lips turned up into a self-deprecating smile. “But then she sat down beside Kasia and began asking her questions about Judaism. I think, were it not for her husband, she would have converted by now.”

  Bijan told the same tale. He never knew what to make of it. “Bijan has mentioned that the queen always has a smile for her.”

  “And for her son.” Her gaze fell to her lap. “He is a beautiful boy. Looks much like his father.”

  Navid. He prayed for the boy every morning, every night.

  His fingers curled into his palm. So many times in the past five years he had started toward Asho’s house with his cart of carvings, fully intending to deliver them himself so that he might catch a glimpse of his child.

  But then as he drew near, as the shame and guilt of memory crashed over him, he realized he would cause turmoil for the boy if he showed up. And he turned away.

  Esther forced a smile. “I hear Joshua is to marry next month. Kasia tells me he has been busy building a home for his bride.”

  “With a foolish grin upon his face every moment.” He had encouraged Joshua to use the addition already finished and furnished, but his brother had refused.

  He probably feared it would curse his match.

  “And what of you?” She met his gaze again, held it. “When will you marry, Zech? It has been six years.”

  She had forgiven him. Kasia said so, and he could see it for himself now. But forgiving himself . . . he was not sure he could ever accomplish that. What he had done to Esther—the way he had treated Ruana. He shook his head. “I have nothing left to give a wife.”

  “I cannot believe that. Please, Zech, try to be happy.”

  “I am. Or content, anyway. I have my family, a passel of nieces and nephews to keep me entertained, with more sure to come after Joshua weds.”

  “And your little Jewish army.” She grinned, eyes gleaming. “I sometimes rise with the sun so I might watch the lot of you practicing. Your numbers keep growing.”

  She watched him, from her home in the palace? He shook that thought off. “We have broken into several groups, actually. And it is not only Jews. Bijan and many of his friends join us too, to keep their reflexes sharp.”

  A knock sounded at the door, and Zethar poked his head in. “Excuse me, mistress. Zech. The king is coming, and he would like some time alone with her.”

  “Of course.” Esther stood, moved to the door.

  Zechariah fell in behind her. Out in the hall, they both paused. He hesitated, then figured he might as well ask. In an undertone, so no one else would hear. “Are you happy? I want to think you are, but I am never certain. Your husband is so in love with my sister . . .”

  She gave him a smile he knew well. At peace with who she was, where she was, even if no one else understood that. Even if they thought she ought to reach for something more. “I am content.”

  How odd, that only now did he fully understand that. He nodded and watched her walk away, then turned toward the exit.

  He found Abba and Ima at the gate, which was curiously absent of Mordecai. They held each other, rocked to the rhythm of Ima’s keening. He gathered them up and urged them home.

  ~*~

  Mordecai rent his garment and fell to the floor with a guttural cry. He had known Haman hated Kasia, hated him, hated all the Jews—but he had never thought it would come to this. Had never thought he would hear such a decree in the streets.

  “Jehovah! He has set a day for destruction. A day to wipe your children from the face of the earth. First Kasia, but now this?”

  A whisper moved over him, through him. Mourn for my people. Take your lamentations into the streets.

  He trembled and curled his arms over his head. “I will mourn, Jehovah. I will mourn, and I will trust in your deliverance.”

  Dragging in a breath, he moved to the trunk in the corner of his room. On the bottom rested the sackcloth he had not worn since Keturah died so many years ago. He drew it out, ran a hand over the scratchy, irritating cloth.

  The time for the Lord’s purpose had come—and the first step was reminding the people of Susa that the Jews were their neighbors, their friends.

  He slipped the sackcloth over his head, then strode out to the kitchen. Martha dropped her spoon when she spotted him, but he did not speak. Not yet. He plunged a hand into the ash bin and rubbed it over his face. Down his arms and legs. Across the back of his neck.

  Then he headed for the streets. He would mourn until the whole of Susa mourned with him. So loudly the king would hear even through the cloud of his grief.

  ~*~

  Ima’s hand shook as she ladled soup into Abba’s bowl. Abba stared blindly at it. The younger children all glanced at each other, at their parents, then to Zechariah.

  He sighed and dropped his hand onto the table. “Enough of this. You must tell them what is going on, Abba. She needs all the prayers we can muster.”

  Abba raised weary eyes to him. So long he had fought this, clinging to his stubborn pride. He looked devoid of strength to fight any longer. He sighed and waved a hand. Ima pressed a hand to her mouth and sank to her seat.

  Zechariah looked at his younger siblings. “It is Kasia. She did not die nine years ago, she was merely taken to the palace to wed the king.”

  Joshua’s cup splashed as he dropped it to the table. “What?”

  Sarai frowned—did she even remember her eldest sister? The younger boys surely did not.

  “She has been with the king ever since.” He met each of their gazes, held them to be sure they believed him. “She went with him to war, she came back six years ago. But now she is ill. She just had her fourth child, and something came upon her. Apoplexy, it seems. She lies even now caught between
life and death, and you all must pray. Every one of you. We should fall to our knees and fast until she revives.”

  Joshua muttered a curse, and Ima was so beset she did not even chide him for it. Eglah pushed away her still-empty bowl, Sarai blinked back tears. “I still remember that last day with her,” she murmured. “The way she tickled me when she realized I had Esther’s bracelet. That is the only image I have of her, that smile on her face when she tickled me.”

  “Place that memory at the footstool of Jehovah, Sarai, and beg him to intercede on her behalf. Come, let us—”

  A pounding at the door interrupted him. He glanced at Abba, who made no move to get up. It came again, harder and more frantic. “Coming!” Zechariah wove through the crowd of siblings and over to the door.

  When he opened it, Bijan gusted in with a mountainous cloak in his arms and a whole contingent behind him.

  “Bijan. What—”

  “We need your help.” Bijan uncovered the bundle is his arms, revealing a boy. About five years old. Zechariah’s throat went dry.

  His son. His son was here, in his home.

  Bijan turned and handed Navid to . . . Ruana, he saw when the hood of her cloak fell. Her hands shook as she reached for him, her face white as the moon.

  Her brother’s side oozed red. Zechariah reached to support him when he wobbled. “You are injured. Ima, we need help! What happened, Bijan?”

  His friend winced in pain. “I was visiting them when the announcement reached the house about the Jews.”

  Ima rushed up, a bowl of water and rags in hand. Zechariah eased Bijan to a seat. “What announcement?”

  “You have not heard?” Bijan blinked, then shook his head. “Haman has been given control, and he issued a proclamation that all Jews are to be killed on the thirteenth day of the twelfth month.”

  The bowl of water crashed to the floor, shattered and splashed. Silence pulsed through the room, then an explosion of voices. Some angry, some confused, some incredulous.

  Zechariah met his friend’s gaze. “How did Haman get authority to do this?”

  “The king gave him his signet.” Bijan shifted, hissed out a breath. “When the proclamation reached our ears, Asho went wild. Said something like, ‘Why wait until then?’ and lunged at the nurse, shouting that he would rid his house of the Jews before they stole his family.”

  Zechariah darted a glance at where Ruana huddled in a corner with her son. She met his gaze, things in her eyes he never thought he would see. Things that added depth, maturity . . . and with them beauty beyond what he had found so tempting six years ago.

  Ima crouched down to pick up the pieces of broken pottery, even as Eglah rushed over with another bowl of water. His mother looked around. “Where is the nurse? Is she injured too?”

  Bijan clenched his teeth, nostrils flaring. “She was dead before I could get across the room. Then Ruana was shouting that her heart was already Jehovah’s, and he came after her.” His eyes went unfocused. “Navid was right there, watching, yet Asho flew at her with the same dagger . . .”

  “You stopped him.” Eglah’s hand shook as she dipped a rag into the water. “I need to see the wound, Bijan.”

  “I stopped him.” He pulled his arms out of the tunic and secured it at his waist. The angry gash in his side still oozed blood. “I had to kill him to do so.”

  Ruana shifted the child in her arms and stepped forward. “Now Mother is furious and has disowned us both for casting our allegiance with the Jews. And Asho’s family that was there . . . they would kill us. They threatened to take Navid away.”

  “I could think of nowhere else to bring them.” Bijan gasped when the wet cloth touched his wound.

  Abba stepped into the circle and surveyed first Bijan, then Ruana, and finally the collection of servants they had brought. “You have proven yourself a true friend to my son, Bijan. And that you would risk your life like this . . . you and yours are welcome here. There is no room for all of you in the main house, but I imagine Zechariah will let you stay in his.”

  “Of course. High time it get some use.”

  Ima dropped the broken bowl into the refuse bin and spun away. “I will air it out and give it a quick cleaning.”

  Two of Ruana’s maidservants scurried after her.

  When Ruana shifted again under the weight of Navid, Zechariah gave in to the urging and went to her. Led her to a couch, where she could sit and settle his son against her. Navid’s eyes were closed, but Zechariah could not tell if he slept or merely tried to hold out the world.

  Esther had been right. He was a beautiful boy. Pride swelled before he could remind himself that so far as anyone else knew, this was Asho’s son.

  Ruana smoothed a hand over Navid’s hair and rested her cheek against his head. “He should not have had to see what he did today. It is no wonder he is exhausted.”

  Zechariah folded his hands together to keep from reaching out to him. “You will be able to put him to bed soon.”

  “Will you sit?” Her eyes begged. And how could he refuse, given all she had been through this afternoon? Her own husband trying to kill her . . . Zechariah sat beside her. She loosed a shaky sigh. “I am sorry for bringing this trouble to your door, Zech. I tried to think of somewhere else we would be safe—”

  “You are welcome here.” Their gazes met, knitted together. “You know that. I will not let anything happen to you.”

  Ruana blinked back the moisture in her eyes and turned her gaze on her brother. “He is close, as well. To putting his full faith in Jehovah.” A wisp of a smile flew over her mouth. “Perhaps if he takes the final step, he will have the courage to ask for Eglah’s hand.”

  Zechariah jerked his head around to watch his little sister tend his friend. Bijan had never mentioned anything . . . but was that pleasure underscoring the pain? And Eglah—she had certainly never tended any of Zechariah’s wounds with that much care. Did she love him? Was that why she begged her way out of all the matches Abba tried to arrange?

  He breathed a laugh. “I am blind.”

  That line of conversation halted when Abba folded his arms over his chest and measured Bijan. “This proclamation—as soon as the king realizes what has been done, he will stop it.”

  Zech shook his head. “Not if it was sealed with his signet. He cannot undo a law.”

  Abba muttered a curse. “Do they really expect us to accept it? To let them obliterate us?”

  “They expect you to be overwhelmed by your neighbors, who they have promised to pay for killing you.” Bijan looked over to Zechariah. “We will not make it so easy for them.”

  “No. We will not.”

  Abba relaxed again and turned to him. “Of course. You will finally have your war, Zech. And you will fight for the children of God.”

  A warm weight settled into place over his shoulders. Purpose. He nodded, then glanced at Ruana. Her eyes squeezed shut tightly, and her arms held Navid close against her. More violence was probably the last thing she wanted to hear about, but they must plan.

  Best to get her out of the room first. “Come, Ruana, let me show you and your son where you will stay. Shall I . . . carry him for you?”

  Perhaps she was too tired to do so herself—or perhaps she realized how desperate he was to hold his son. She smiled and held the sleeping child out to him. “Thank you.”

  He would have to thank her, but not with an audience. He eased Navid to a rest against his shoulder and stood. The boy draped himself over him, even looped an arm around his neck.

  Love shafted through him, so fierce it left him breathless. He spun toward the back entrance before anyone could see it on his face and led the way to his never-used home.

  Ruana stayed close to his side. “This is the house you built for your bride. Bijan said she married another instead.”

  “She overheard us. That night.”

  “Oh, Zech.” Ruana paused just outside the door. “I never intended to ruin anything.”

  He debated, deci
ded. She was one of them now, would be in their house for the foreseeable future. She would soon learn the truth anyway. “You have met her.”

  “I have?” She frowned.

  Half his mouth quirked up. “Many times, apparently. Her name is Esther.”

  “Esther.” Her eyes went wide, the last of the color leeched from her cheeks. “Surely you do not mean—”

  “The queen.”

  “But . . . you were going to marry a Persian? Surely your father—”

  “She is Jewish.” He gave her a moment to let that sink in. “No one at the palace knows.”

  Instead of surprise or frustration, relief settled over her face. “Then between her and your sister, surely they can convince the king—”

  “Kasia is near death. If something happens to her, I am unsure what the king may do.”

  Her shoulders edged back. “We will pray for her. And for the king and queen. Jehovah will prevail.”

  “He will. Come.” He stepped through the open door. Ima and the maids had lit several lamps, and he could hear them working in the bedchambers.

  “Where should I put Navid?” Ruana asked. When he nodded to his left, she headed that way. “I will see how they are coming along.”

  Ima emerged from the room that would have been his and Esther’s. Would Ruana sleep with their son tonight, or in there? And why did the question not make anger or regret churn within him?

  His mother smiled. “They ought to be comfortable enough for now. We will do a more thorough cleaning tomorrow, after . . .” Her smile faded, her eyes darted from him to Navid. Studied the boy, studied Zechariah with wide eyes.

  He sucked in a breath. She would see the resemblance—such things never slipped past Ima.

  She stepped close, gaze on Navid. “He is the image of you. The very image. Zechariah, what have you done? Is this how we raised you? How could you treat her that way, then let her marry a monster?”

  Had he thought all these conversations over years ago? He sighed. “She was already married, Ima.”