by Tommy Tenney
Gripped by curiosity now, I knelt and continued to watch from my hidden place in the shadow of the curtain. Artaxerxes barked out several orders which I could not make out, clearly intending to review the troops. Was he merely asserting his impending kingship over the army? I hoped there was more to his scheme. Clearly, shouts and martial trappings would not be sufficient to quell the conspiracy.
Then the loud voices ceased. Artaxerxes stepped up to Artabanus and inclined his head, speaking softly. I would later learn that the prince was making an odd request of the man who supposedly managed a great deal of his personal safety—he was complaining of his own armor being too small and asking to exchange his with the older man’s. How I wish I had been there, standing over the prince’s shoulder, to see the proud captain’s expression upon being asked to disrobe before most of the Royal Palace!
And yet Artabanus, anxious to continue his guise of amiable friend to the prince, could not refuse such a command from a royal—not publicly, not today. So, reluctantly, he began to do the unthinkable—right there in the front row of the military review—the arduous process of removing his armor plates, one by one. Of course, the Palace Guard, like their more elite colleagues the Immortals, are quite fastidious about their battle dress, festooning their armor with all sorts of capes, feathers, and gold adornments. I nearly laughed out loud at seeing the captain’s pink, very unwarriorlike flesh revealed to the light of day.
Finally Artabanus stood almost nude in only his inner short tunic before the prince who—I suddenly noticed—had not removed any armor of his own.
There was a charged, confused pause in which Artabanus seemed to scowl, apparently unaware of what he should do next. Making all sorts of uncertain nods and shrugs, he grasped his helmet and attempted a ceremonious gesture of handing it to Artaxerxes. Which, of course, looked all the more ridiculous because of the giver’s laughable state. Imagine an almost-naked man bowing forward, holding a helmet nearly large and decorated enough to cover his entire midsection, with five hundred fully-armed soldiers standing at attention behind him! I strained my ears for the sound of laughter, of even snickering. Amazingly, I heard none. The guards’ discipline was amazing.
Artaxerxes did not move a muscle to accept the captain’s proffered headpiece.
With a swiftness and a ferocity that took my breath away, he grasped his sword, withdrew its blade, wheeled and plunged it straight through the captain’s pale belly.
I heard a sound, whether my own or that of the combined soldiers, I would never be sure. For Artabanus fell to his knees, a bright red fount gushing from the wound, as the prince withdrew his sword with a grimace and the body fell heavily sideways.
Then everything seemed to happen at once. Never having witnessed actual battle firsthand before, I was struck by the chaotic and frenzied pace of its motion. But the front row of Artabanus’ commanders unsheathed their weapons and, with a single shout, moved upon Artaxerxes. The prince had the advantage, with not only an already drawn sword but the charge of bloodlust upon him, and then an even better fortune still—for Megabyzos sprang into action, waving his massive blade about him like a madman. I saw at least one head fly off its shoulders, and severed limbs tossed about like branches in a windstorm.
I wanted to turn away and vomit, but I could not wrench my eyes from the scene.
For a moment I found it impossible to gauge who had won the advantage, so furious was the grappling and massing of combatants. But the scene quickly grew even more difficult to watch, for the terrace’s fine gray marble now shone a bright, slick crimson, and screams of terror and agony now drowned out bellows of challenge and triumph.
Behind the frontmost rows, the greater number of soldiers had abandoned their formation and seemed to mill about in confusion, unsure whether to take the side of their captain or their king.
But their uncertainty did not last long.
From a side walkway came the unmistakable sound of countless leather boots and another shout, so loud and strong that I realized at once it came from the throats of a hundred men at full battle charge.
I recognized the uniforms at once—the Immortals.
Of course! The Immortals’ commander was Otanes, one of the empire’s most celebrated war heroes and noblemen. And, as it happened, he was also the father of Vashti, Xerxes’ disgraced Queen and Artaxerxes’ mother. But this also made Otanes Artaxerxes’ grandfather. In three straight columns the vaunted warriors fell upon the scene of carnage—not so much to massacre as to quell the confusion, I soon realized. At top speed and with an intensity of purpose that filled me with awe, one column inserted itself between the bewildered troops and the actual fighting. Another jumped heedlessly into the fray, pulling apart combatants both wounded and whole.
The third column seemed to concentrate itself on the surviving sons of Artabanus, who once pulled from the carnage were quickly deprived of their heads.
Just as quickly, the battle was over.
But my eyes could not discern the state of Artaxerxes—
—until, with my heart in my throat, I saw him being pulled to one side by a pair of Immortals. He seemed to be thrashing in pain, his armor stained with blood. Just beside him, Megabyzos was being attended, too, seemingly in even greater injury.
I had just seen an historic display of bravery and cunning. But I also realized that someone I loved was in danger of his life, for the second time in less than a day.
And perhaps my own survival lay in the balance. As Queen I was inextricably linked with Xerxes and his family. Any change in the dynasty would likely mean my own head.
The time for watching from a high perch was over. If I was to be in danger, I would at least be at the side of my surrogate son, the young man I had loved like my own since he was a mere baby—for I did truly love him.
I rushed out of my quarters and ran at my best speed through the palace, threading my path through a labyrinth of pale and frightened faces, down long corridors and the grand staircase to the terrace doors. I burst out and found my momentum slowed first by the brightness of the day, and then by a cordon of Immortals who had now surrounded the battleground. In fact, I actually rushed into the arms of one hapless soldier, who made to restrain me until he heard me call out my name and recognized my face. Bewildered, he lowered his arms and allowed me through.
A moment later I almost wished he had held me back.
I literally felt myself skating on a sheen of blood as I rushed toward Artaxerxes’ side. I did not find him by spotting him directly, but rather the thick cordon of Immortals and two grieving women—his weeping sisters Amytis and Rhodogyne.
Friend to both of them, but not as close as to their brother, I shouldered my way through to see what I could of my beloved prince. I dare not call him son precisely, because I did not give birth to him. Nevertheless, ever since his mother Vashti’s disappearance and presumed murder (at a time when she was widely rumored to be with child) followed by his strange arrival—a sleeping baby carried into the palace on the arm of a warrior and left there with only a note stating his name—I had acted much as a mother would have.
And that is why, when I first looked down and beheld his condition, my grief was so much more intense than that of a subject toward her new king. Although he was pale, and his eyes seemed to be half trained elsewhere, the state of his wounds allowed me to roughly estimate that he would live.
He focused his eyes on mine and smiled grimly. And though weak in body, he muttered to me with as much finality and authority as he could muster, “Tell Mordecai I heeded his warning. I took care of my enemy.”
I nodded and squeezed his hand. In that moment, kneeling before him, I realized that the Persian Empire had a new King.
My next thought was, I am no longer Queen. The knowledge dawned within me like the sudden quenching of a precious light.
But true to my training, I kissed his bloody hand before rising, then whispered my acknowledgment to him.
“Let me be the first to say t
o you, my son, ‘Live long and live well, O King of Persia.’”
That is all I remember of that scene. The rest is a hazy dream of hurrying forms and shouted orders. I must have gone weak in the knees, for I do recall being carried by courtiers into my private Queen’s chambers. I think it was my arrival there that brought the full emotional onslaught surging into my bosom.
Xerxes is dead. My husband is gone. I am no longer Queen of Persia. These would no longer be my living quarters.
And yet, I lamented, why should I worry about where I live, when I’m not sure I want to live without him? I vacillated between extreme grief and overwhelming anxiety. And to make matters worse, I knew full well the utterly dangerous place the palace had just become.
Chapter Thirty-five
NAQSHI-I-RUSTAM, SOUTH OF PERSEPOLIS, BURIAL DAY
I will always remember the funeral procession to Naqshi-i-Rustam, Xerxes’ burial place. Despite being pressed mercilessly for decisions from every level of palace leadership, Mordecai had set aside his urgent Prime Minister’s duties long enough to ride with me and Jesse cum Hathach at the head of the stadias-long mourners’ procession. I was endlessly grateful for his compassion, for I feared I would not have endured the trip without both of them nearby. We rode just behind Artaxerxes, who sat propped up on his largest warhorse before a cantle as tall he was. A dozen of the empire’s best physicians had argued for days about whether the crown prince would survive the journey, at his precarious point of recovery. And yet the busiest hive of activity surrounded Mordecai, who during this time of transition represented the very glue of dynastic continuity.
I remember little of the month-long ride itself, except plodding on my mount for what seemed like forever through a scorching desert sun to the very outskirts of Persepolis, symbolic seat of the Achaemenids. Someone had offered me a litter, but given the circumstances of the journey, I knew it would prove a near-death sentence for the carriers. Which, for many in the Persian court, would have been of little consequence. Let the slaves perish, they would have said, for this is an important trip. As you know, Mordecai did not raise me to even contemplate such an idea.
If it sounds as though I’m complaining about the severity of the trip and the bleakness of its surroundings, I am not—really. For you see, in my grieving silence I actually found that the featurelessness of the desert and the harshness of its conditions matched my inner climate exactly. The desert’s vastness and spareness soothed me, somehow. Not only that, but the sound of so many people riding together in complete silence was both comforting and highly odd. I recall the sound of hooves striking the brittle sand, the creaking of saddle leather. I remember the blinding glare shining from the solid gold sarcophagus of my dead husband. And the tragic stateliness of my old friend Hegai, standing his ceremonial final sentinel, symbolically guarding a body that no longer required watch care.
What I remember best, however, is the overwhelming sense of loss and disorientation that swept through me time after time during those hours. In a way, even with my twin anchors Mordecai and Jesse beside me, I was glad for the enforced silence of the convoy; for I would have been at a loss for anything to say. What remains most vivid now is the almost physical sensation of being utterly and completely bereft of direction. Lost entirely. Had I found myself in a desert, thinking myself within range of an oasis but unable to find it, unable even to ascertain its direction, the feeling would have exactly matched my emotions of those days.
At last we reached the Husain Kuh Mountains and the soaring cliffs of Naqshi-i-Rustam, where Darius already lay buried and where Xerxes’ tomb awaited. I remember glancing up at the great stone ramparts and wishing they would seal me in, too—simply leave me there to die alongside him. But the ritual of the observances kept me distracted, I suppose, from falling back into complete despair. We entered the darkness, with torches blazing and the heat still radiating from Xerxes’ coffin, and we bade him good-bye. I did not weep until the final moments, whether from fear of showing weakness to the coconspirators most assuredly in our midst, or perhaps my well of tears had gone dry from overuse in the previous days. Then Mordecai looked over and caught my eye, and the devastation in his gaze brought me right back to my old bed in the royal chamber, and the sight of my beloved struggling for his life.
I looked down and let my tears fall through the darkness onto the sand beneath my feet. Then I walked forward for one final caress of the sarcophagus. I bent down, kissed it—him—and whispered a faint farewell in Hebrew.
And then I inched my way back through the dark tunnel, and once more into the harsh brilliance of the desert sun.
Of the ride home, I remember two things. One was that it proved much more disheartening than even the ride up. Not really knowing what awaited me back in Susa now burdened my heart like a physical weight. And, two, I recall once turning to Jesse, quite purposely, and letting him glimpse, for an instant, deep into my own misery.
I found myself thinking, strangely out of step with the occasion, Jesse, what has become of us? What became of that vigorous, attractive pair of youthful companions who ran so fearlessly through the King’s Gate market on that day so long ago? Where did the blissful promise of our first kiss disappear? Or the innocence of a girl who did not even know such things could be shared between a man and a woman? Or that love could even feel like that?
And I was pondering, You are no longer even Jesse; why do I continue to refer to you as that? I willed myself to say it. It’s Hathach. But voicing his Persian name only compounded my feelings.
And I was thinking this . . .
. . . it should have been you, Jesse. Had I been given my choice, you surely would have been my husband.
Instead, here we were—famous and prominent perhaps, but nevertheless, two adults approaching middle age, moving toward a very uncertain and unpromising future.
PTHRAGDA (PASARGADAE), CITADEL OF CYRUS THE GREAT—TWENTY DAYS LATER
Obviously, the astonishing outcome of the coronation ceremony hardly helped matters, as you might imagine. It certainly wasn’t the treatment I was accorded, for in fact I moved about very much as a Queen Mother, or at least a Queen Regent. At least until—well, you know what I speak of, as does any well-informed Persian subject. Nor did it surprise me for Artaxerxes to treat me kindly, in the absence of a mother he had never really known.
I remember standing beside Mordecai on the top level of Pâthragâda’s Tall-i-Takht, the “throne hill,” awaiting the arrival of the prince, and looking out over the crowd of Persians assembled to watch their new sovereign be crowned. And taking deep, long breaths to keep myself from weeping out loud.
Despite the respectful manner with which I was dealt, the whole celebration seemed at that moment to be little more than a pointed and grandiose way to drive home the fact that another king was about to take the throne. And that I was only part of the past. A relic of history—an honored part of it, to be sure, and a virtual heroine among my fellow Jews of the Quarter. But still, a remnant. And, despite the ever-abiding kindness of Jesse and Mordecai, very much alone.
It was all I could do to keep my mind on the present—too often and too quickly my memories galloped back to the glorious day when my beloved had announced me as his Queen. Indeed, Mordecai and I, and Jesse too, had witnessed some enormous gatherings during our long-past time in the sun. I never thought I would see their like—so huge and sprawling and enthusiastic were these crowds. But clearly, nothing in the life of a kingdom matches the coronation of a fresh young king. Even with Persia’s waning fortunes, her Greek and Egyptian enemies gaining the better of her more often than not, her farflung boundaries shrinking by the year, her satraps complaining of staggering taxation and imperial excess—all troubles of the sort were forgotten on a day like that.
I remember looking out over that sea of heads that filled the plain of Cyrus’ old palace, then past it to the ring of stunning mountain peaks surrounding us on every side. And I wondered if anything more momentous could be happe
ning anywhere on the whole earth on that particular morning.
It was a cloud-strewn, tumultuous day. It seemed as though the elements had absorbed some of the crowd’s seething anticipation and were tossing all forms of turbulence into the heavens. A restless wind blew into our faces omens of a coming winter. It all seemed fitting, as if the whole world was in transition.
I felt as though I was attending my own execution.
Then at once, in one of the most exquisitely timed and executed entrances I have ever seen, Artaxerxes was walking through us, arrayed in splendor. I shook my head in disbelief, for he seemed to have grown so much in authority that he appeared significantly older than the last time I had seen him. He had recovered amazingly from his wounds. He stood so straight and tall, and strode forward with such a glow upon his face that I could not tell if it was the daylight or the warmth of the people’s cheers. Just then a gust of wind billowed up his robe, great flames leaped up on the fire altars to either side, Artaxerxes threw up his arms in the classic posture of Persian adoration, looking every bit like the Persian god Zarathustra in the Gathas, and a great roar from the crowd blew through us like a whirlwind.
Mordecai turned to me, shook his head, and smiled, and I understood. It was hard not to grin before such blinding beauty and adulation.
And do you know what I was feeling, at this sublime moment? I was feeling that all the glories of Xerxes had been forgotten, that by comparison the reign of my beloved husband and his contemporaries had just been relegated to little more than a shabby, dreary cast-off. Everything about that moment was so perfect, so pure, so ordained, that my own days on the throne seemed dreadful in contrast. I wanted nothing more than a dark place to hide.
Writing this, I know of course how self-centered and self-pitying it all must seem. But then again, that’s why I am taking the time to describe it to you—so you will fully understand the bitter inner journey I have undertaken.