by Tommy Tenney
“Then we understand each other. Good day. . . . ”
Chapter Forty
Indeed, I did find my legs to leave, but only because I was so eager to be rid of her presence. I struggled upright and, without further word, left the room. Walking out into the reassuring light and spaciousness of the hall, I realized that the conversation had been all the more unsettling because of the strange mixture of threat and gratitude Amestris had displayed. Perhaps that was her way, I pondered as I walked over to the slaves waiting beside my pallet. Keeping people off-balance.
“Let us away, my man,” I told the lead carrier, but just then a loud cry interrupted me from behind.
“Esther! My Queen!” It was Mordecai, with Jesse, I believe, behind him, both of them running and out of breath. It seems I had taken my leave of the palace without warning them both, and neither looked happy with the manner of my departure.
“How dare you simply slip out of here like some discharged servant!” Mordecai demanded between pants of his breath. “You are Queen Regent, the past Queen of the Empire. You deserve a litter, at least, to carry you out.”
“Please,” I said. “I do not wish to call attention to this departure, in this fashion. Let me just walk out of here on my own strength, with my own dignity.”
“I will not hear of it,” huffed Mordecai. He was still Master of the Audiences, and so a small host of lesser aides and attendants had gathered at a respectful distance behind him. With a wave of his hand, he summoned over his chief assistant.
“Have the royal litter brought here with all due haste,” he ordered. The aide nodded and disappeared.
“And what shall we do while it is being prepared?” I asked in a low voice. “Stand here and endure half of the palace staff standing there staring at us? You see, this is what I did not want.”
“Let them stare.” I believe it was Jesse who answered, in an intentionally loud voice. “Let them remember your beauty and grace, and that you were the beloved Queen in the history of Persia. Let them recall how you canceled the Queen’s Tax, championed the lot of the concubines, the prisoners, and the slaves.”
I lowered my head, remembering why I loved him so.
“Hadassah, do you remember,” said Mordecai in a reflective whisper, “the two traitorous guards, Teresh and Bigthan, who were dragged through this very hallway on a veritable carpet of human fists intent on tearing them apart?”
“Yes, I do. Those were dangerous times. A conspiracy around every corner, it seemed.”
“Well, those times are returning. Artaxerxes’ ascension has not been met with universal pleasure. Aspamitres, our most brilliant young chamberlain, has just been tortured to death in the most horrific fashion for his part in the plot against Xerxes. There is rumor that more conspirators walk the palace unpunished. The Princes of the Face are fighting among themselves. The King’s own brother Hystaspis has launched a revolt in Bactria. Egypt is restless.”
“Are you trying to discourage me further?” I asked. “Please—do not bother. This day has been disheartening enough.”
Mordecai held my hand, and his tone became the same one he had used so long ago, when I was but a girl. “No, my dear. I simply warn you to watch yourself, to keep your eyes open, and to stay close to our G-d. I worry about you—especially now that you are leaving the King’s quarters, with my help now farther away from you.”
“I will do all those things, Poppa,” I said breathily. “I promise you.”
“And you promise to ride in this—” he said, turning to the royal litter, which had just emerged over his shoulder. Fleetingly, I recalled the proper name for a four-man litter—a palaquin.
With a sigh and a fair measure of fatigue, for I had now been standing for quite a while, I accepted his thoughtful offer and stepped inside a semiprivate enclosure of velvet and overstuffed pillows, sheer draperies fluttering in between. At least, I remembered, it offered some parallel to the most exciting day of my life, that day so long ago when I had made this journey in the opposite direction—a painted and pampered young beauty on the final day of a year’s preparation for one night of passion.
Well, I told myself with a chuckle as the litter rose in the air and began to move forward, today I am a decade and a half older, no longer perfumed or fresh or even virginal. Whether I was still to be considered beautiful, I seriously doubted. But I supposed I was wiser—at least if the old adages about age bringing wisdom bear any truth. So I attempted to reassure myself.
The great palace doors parted before us, and I shut my eyes against the flood of daylight and felt myself instantly transported, as if not an hour had passed, to that very day. The heat. The fear. The uncertainty—for I had not yet visited the innermost palace, and lacked even the knowledge of how vast and forbidding a place it was. As keenly as a spice on the tongue, I once again tasted every flavor of the experience: the heat about my face and head, the moisture upon my brow, the smell of spices warming across my body from the day’s unexpected torpor, the swoon of my overexcited senses, even the metallic taste of my fear.
And then, as we now made our way out onto the great courtyard into that very sun, I recalled the most striking of all that day’s sensations—the nearness of G-d. The feeling of a Father beside me, all around me, who loved me with a fervor I could never extinguish.
I sighed, for the return of so many feelings at once overwhelmed me, combined with all I had already lived through that day. So much had happened in between these twin, opposing journeys—losing my innocence, falling in love, my spectacular wedding, being named Queen, the dizzying time of nearly dying in a plot against my own people, the Jews. And the Feast of Purim still celebrated every year on the anniversary of our deliverance from wicked Haman.
Yes, my life had now become a High Holiday, of all things, a feast of remembrance, named in honor of my actions. Purim—the day in which the tide had turned favor into our direction. How could I exceed that with anything to come? Surely, my day had passed. With every step I could feel the shadow of my own twilight approaching.
Such is life, I told myself. Few have experienced the victories and historic events I have lived. Yet all are called on to weather the passage of years—either that or die young, which I did not particularly desire. The time had come to face some of life’s grim realities. At least I had the great memories of those days to warm me as the chill deepened.
Once again, thick crowds of people parted at my approach, for not only did I ride the King’s litter, but in this day of uncertainty just following the coronation, interest in the royal family’s doings were at a fever pitch. A scattering of folk, mistaking my retinue for the coming of the King, even fell to their knees. I waved and tried not to appear too haughty, for I knew that in a day’s time I would be among them, ranked not far from their status in palace society.
At last we crossed the three successive royal courtyards and reached the harem, which despite its beauty awaited me like a haunted, lonelier version of the place I had left. All of Xerxes’ concubines had been given a royal reprieve following his death—allowed to stay or leave as they wished, the women with child remaining to press their status as royal mothers, the women with living family members and some vestige of their youth departing at once, and most of the older women staying simply because they had forgotten how to live any other way.
Jesse stood awaiting me, of course, with Mordecai behind him—the both of them having walked behind the litter to grant me privacy during the passage. But theirs now was the only human presence in sight.
Within minutes, I was installed back in the same corner suite into which Hegai had moved me after granting me his special favor during my Days of Preparation. My pallet was untied and its component packages unloaded into various corners of the main retiring room. The whole unloading took less than half an hour.
Little did I know that before long one of the vacant rooms so near mine would house a young girl who would quickly catch my eye, confirm my instinct that her bearing and p
oise betrayed a Jewish lineage, then soon provoke me to embark on a series of endless missives to explain my life and its many lessons to a new “young sister.”
I walked around that once-familiar space, touched the boxes, grazed the ribbons and items of clothing with my fingers as I sought to reconnect both what I had left behind and the once-familiar sensation of my new home.
I remember how Jesse and Mordecai both hovered around me, unsure how to help me through the moment, occasionally reaching out to me with tentative hands but inevitably letting me pass.
Finally, I felt a smothering sense of confinement crowd in around me, and their presence became too much. I remember saying, with the greatest reluctance in my voice, “Mordecai, Jesse, I am so grateful for your help on this day. I am not sure I would have endured without you. But now, I think the moment has come for me to be alone.”
“Are you sure?” Mordecai asked, and I think Jesse voiced a similar doubt.
“No, but I think it. I believe it might be best. I will have many hours to myself in this place, no matter how often you come here. I need to start with a good one, in the glow of your visit.”
Mordecai met Jesse’s gaze, I recall, and a spark of agreement passed between the two of them. With lingering touches of my hand and forearm, they both took their leave.
And I breathed in deeply, looked out the window at a palace wall glowing distantly in the afternoon sun, curled up in a shadowy corner, and survived the first moment of my personal twilight.
That moment lingered into an hour. An hour became a day. Days and nights alike blended into each other, each one seemingly as empty and lifeless as the one before.
It is there, in the endless pauses and the eternal silences that followed, that I struck bottom. Or should say I, bottom struck me.
At first I found myself, of all things, weeping for my long-dead parents. Although I had not mourned them for years, now I whimpered like a lost child and called out their names—their absence as fresh and cruel as if it they had been wrenched from me only yesterday. I remembered with startling clarity the warm, bell-like ring of my mother’s laughter as she played with me. The feel of my father’s beard when he kissed me good night, and the sparkle in his eye when he scolded me with his usual gentleness. On several occasions, I even found that I was calling for them, “Momma . . . Poppa . . .” into the shadows, with the same lilting tone I had given my calls when I was a carefree youngster. As if I had every reason to expect their reappearance.
The next stage began with anger. Or rage, to be more honest, directed straight at G-d. I remember snarling into the emptiness, calling to Him out loud, “You—you did this! You spared your people through me—wonderful. You were my companion, a long time ago. Well, what about now? Is this my fate? Is this how your great figures wind up when you’re done with them? Tossed away like old rags? Well, let me tell the people now about your vaunted faithfulness. Let me warn anyone who would listen—beware, watch out, do anything . . . except follow G-d’s purposes. . . . ”
Later, with a slowness that seemed to mimic the passing of seasons and the wearing down of mountains, I felt my anger wane and gradually melt into self-pity. For days, I wallowed in the frailty of my diminished station and my sagging limbs. Lamented my once-considerable personhood. My growing loneliness.
Then, on a bright morning only a few days after learning that Artaxerxes was going to imitate his father and scour the empire for a suitable queen candidate, I heard a knock on my door and opened it to Jesse and Mordecai, both wearing faint smiles.
“Come here; we want to show you something,” Jesse said, for I remember it perfectly. Mordecai bent his index finger and waved the tip to beckon me forward.
The two of them escorted me out to the veranda, planted fists on hips, and smiled. I followed their gazes, squinted against the sunlight, and felt myself suddenly whisked back in time.
Chapter Forty-one
For there on the terrace, milling about with uncertain and even a few traumatized expressions, stood several dozen shockingly beautiful young girls in the attire of Persian satrapies near and far. I don’t know if it was the effect of stepping outside so suddenly, but I felt the scene spin and became physically disoriented by how powerfully and vividly the sight plunged me into my past.
Observing the girls’ utterly smooth skin, their unwrinkled eyes, the casual flawlessness of their figures, I remembered the few hours I had once spent in this strange waiting state. I recalled what it felt like to be so young, so naïve—only vaguely aware of how the flare of my bosom or the line of my thigh could inflame a man’s desires beyond common sense. I felt once more the vague, unsettling awareness of people’s eyes traveling up and down my body, appraising, comparing, coveting.
Yes, I had forgotten the image of girls like these—partly because when I had stood there as they did, I did not remain unaware or naïve or disoriented for very long. Nor would they, if my experience had any bearing. Likely, they would find themselves clothed in traditional concubine attire within the hour. Then they would quickly learn the ways of the harem and begin to parade about with the petulant swagger of some of the girls I had known long ago. Soon, most would transform into the petty, backbiting, unspeakably vain creatures who traditionally populated this place. Truly, the picture before me captured a most transitory and fleeting moment in their lives.
I felt a bitter rise of bile within me and turned away. The display of precarious innocence and unearned beauty suddenly felt like a wound in my soul.
“Are you all right, Hadassah?” Mordecai asked me, leaning toward me with concern.
I remember turning back to the group, of which you were a part, Leah, with the muscles of my face pulled tight from anger.
“Tell me, why did you show me this? Did you relish the prospect of torturing me?”
“No, my dear,” Jesse stammered. “I merely thought the sight would bring back happier times.”
“It has not done that.”
“I am sorry,” Mordecai interjected. “But what could this possibly provoke? Tell us, please.”
I remember turning on him with utter incredulity. I could hardly believe a man would willingly request a rebuke, but then I had momentarily forgotten what longsuffering friends the two of them were.
“I don’t want to say it.”
“Please tell us.”
I took such a deep breath that I recall craning my neck backward and catching sight of a piercing blue sky. I kept my gaze averted to deny them the sight of my tears and replied. “Seeing these girls, I want to say to myself, Esther—or Hadassah, it matters little—you are no longer a queen. No longer a wife. No longer a lover. Long past a beauty. Mother to no one. Without family, but for one. Friend to few. A footnote of history. Forgotten. Discarded. A dweller in shadows. Counting down the dregs of my days with no other purpose than to endure them.”
I wish you had seen how Mordecai spoke to me in that moment. How powerfully he turned to me, as he once did so often in his younger and more forceful days, grabbed my hands and spoke to me with tears in his own eyes and with the intensity of a prophet!
“Not in G-d’s eyes,” he said fiercely, “you are not. You do have a father, who loves you beyond all imagining. You are loved and desired and beautiful beyond measure. You are mother to countless generations saved by your courage. Your family may only now number the two of us, but it will one day number among the nations. Your story will be recounted among children a thousand years hence, a story which has far from ended. . . . Even now, your name is invoked every year on the Feast of Purim.”
I could not help myself. The balm of his words unleashed a watery torrent down my face. I threw my arms around Poppa, buried my head in his shoulder, and wept with bittersweet relief.
After a few minutes, I pulled back, felt Jesse’s hand search for mine, and grasped it warmly while the three of us stood together, regarding the arriving concubines like a trio of adoring parents.
But Mordecai was not through with me. H
e had more in mind than simply showing me the group’s arrival.
“Look,” he said, pointing discretely, keeping his finger close to his side.
Mordecai had indicated a particular girl standing off by herself. At first all I noticed was the dress, for she was clad in a striking robe of blue silk, which, besides its flattering form and elegant shade, reminded me greatly of the robe I had worn in to the King on my First Night. Then I noticed her face. She was a most composed young woman with dark hair, porcelain skin, and eyes that glimmered with a deep and mature-seeming beauty. Something stirred inside of me as I caught sight of them, and I found myself looking closer, staring harder.
It was you, of course—as if I need to tell you that.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” Mordecai asked, with such a twinge of longing in his voice that I turned to him with a bemused curiosity. I had never heard him use that tone before.
“Yes, she is,” I answered. “Obviously, you appear to think so.”
“I believe she’s Jewish,” Mordecai said without shifting his gaze, his voice now husky with emotion.
As soon as he said it, I knew it was true.
“Believe? Wouldn’t such a thing be known for certain?”
And I remember the odd, bemused look Jesse gave me. “You have a short memory, my Hadassah. Like another girl who came here not so long ago, she is likely under what is now called an Esther Edict.”
“Esther Edict?”
“Strict orders to keep her Jewishness to herself.”
“Why would her family have given such an order now, of all times?”
“Today more than ever, my dear. Precisely because Jews are so powerful in today’s palace. You are still very much known and spoken of. Mordecai is the Master of Audiences, the man closest to the King. I am the King’s chamberlain, Master of the Harem, and have been ever since the day of Hegai’s death. And there’s the whole host of other Jewish friends and allies we’ve nurtured through the ranks of royal service through the years. My friend Nehemiah, the cupbearer, Chaim the royal procurer—”