Harvest - 01 - Harvest of Rubies

by Tessa Afshar

  I kept waiting for the ending of the story, the part where the queen would tell me that someone came to his senses and stopped this disastrous chain of events. The world operated according to rules and regulations. Insignificant Jewish scribes simply did not marry Persian aristocrats. It was rare enough for Persian aristocracy to marry outside their own ranks. But when they did, they did not choose women who brought no political advantage, no wealth, and no beauty. Someone must have thought of this at some point and recognized the impossibility of such a scheme. I would be all right, I kept assuring myself. There would be no marriage to some spoilt courtier who would stifle the life out of me with his lofty expectations. This was a jest.

  “There is one difficulty,” the queen began, and I breathed out in relief. Here it was: the voice of reason. “Lord Vivan must leave for Ionia before we depart to Ecbatana. He will be gone a full year on an assignment from the king. And he does not wish to wait that long to see his heir married. He wants to celebrate his son’s wedding before his departure at the end of the week.”

  My jaw dropped open. I put a hand against my neckline and pulled it down to give myself some air. “End of this week?”

  “I am afraid it shall be a hurried affair, a one-night feast instead of the appropriate seven-day celebration. In his generosity the king has offered the use of the new Throne Hall in Persepolis; he hopes the magnificence will make up for the shortness of the celebrations. Lord Vivan shall have to foot the bill of course; the king is not that generous.” Everyone laughed. I began to believe that this wedding was something real in the queen’s mind. That she counted on it taking place at some point in the future.

  “But, surely, Your Majesty, I am too insignificant for such a lofty lord from the Passargadae tribe to marry. It would not be fitting,” I said, desperate to remind her of reason, and to escape this unbearable fate. The Passargadaes were the greatest family in Persia. Even the Achaemenid kings descended from them.

  “Nonsense. It is fitting if I say it is. You need not worry about anything, Sarah. I myself have given you some furnishings and a few robes so that you shall not go to your husband’s house empty-handed. There is no reason for you to be ashamed when a queen stands behind you. The contracts were signed by your father and Lord Vivan this morning. Everything is taken care of.”

  At the mention of contracts I collapsed on the floor; my legs could no longer support me. I heard the twittering of laughter around me, and did not care. Then I felt a gentle arm go around me and a cup was placed against my lips. I tasted wine. I saw that the queen herself held me.

  “Come, come, it has been too much for you, poor child. You had best go and rest now.”

  I thought if I left her presence, I might not be able to secure another audience until it was too late. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” I mumbled, and forced myself to my feet. “I am well.” I grasped wildly about, hoping for inspiration. “But my lady, who shall be your chief scribe if I marry? There will be no time to replace me. I cannot bear to think of the shambles your records shall fall into without proper care.”

  Damaspia took a half step away. “You have uncovered the one weakness of my plan, I admit. It is most inconvenient to myself, this marriage of yours. You were the best scribe I ever had. Such is my regard for you, however, that I have willingly made the sacrifice.”

  “You need not—”

  “Enough!”

  I knew that tone. The regal voice that declared the end of discussion.

  I remembered that I had not thanked her yet, and that I could not afford such a breach in protocol. In a choked voice I said, “I am very grateful for your undeserved generosity, my queen.” Then bowing, I left.

  My father, I told myself, would find a way out of this. I collapsed on the familiar bench in the king’s garden, utterly blind to the beauty that surrounded me, and tried hard to hold on to my sanity as I waited for my father’s arrival. Scant hours ago, it seemed, my life was just as I wanted it; I had my work, I had the respect of my queen; I had the satisfaction of knowing I chose my own path.

  Damaspia had told me that my marriage would inconvenience her, yet never had she thought of my inconvenience. Everyone in her chamber had looked at me as though I had been handed the keys to happiness, as though I ought to kiss the hem of the queen’s robes with utter thankfulness.

  But I knew about aristocratic marriages amongst the Persians; I saw my queen, cherished by her royal husband, yet having to share him with many women. He called Damaspia beloved and yet sired children by others. I would not have the luxury of love. I was nothing but the appeasement of a promise to a dead woman. How many women would I have to share my home with? How many women would bully and despise me?

  In the palace, I shared my humble room with others; but that little spot was mine; no one begrudged me its use. I earned it with my service.

  The work of my hand brought me respect as well as wages. I knew I had earned the admiration of the queen and as a result, her household. In spite of my relative obscurity, I was worthy of esteem by those who knew of me in the palace. In the house of the cousin of the king I would be nobody. Worse. I would be a disappointment. These thoughts filled me with such panic I began to tremble and could not stop.

  I saw my father walking slowly toward me from a distance and ran to him.

  “What is this thing you have done?” he asked without greeting. He sounded tired.

  “It was the queen’s doing. I only found out about it this morning. Father, how do we stop this madness?”

  “It cannot be stopped, Sarah. I sealed the contracts myself.”

  “Why?” I cried. “Why did you not refuse?”

  “Refuse the king’s own cousin? Are you mad? He came armed with the king and queen’s blessings.”

  I turned away from him to rest my head against the trunk of a sycamore tree. “Why me?” I moaned. “No doubt there are many sweet-tempered, beautiful Jewish girls who would love to become wife to a Passargadae. I will find one myself and deliver her to the door of Lord Vivan before the week is out. Why me?”

  “Sarah, it is done.”

  “It is not!” I screamed. “I will find a way. I will go to Cousin Nehemiah.”

  “He was there when I signed the contract,” my father said softly. “There to help, not to hinder.”

  His resignation made me furious. “You have no care for me,” I said, my face cold. “You never have. This marriage will kill me.” I was pleased to see the sheen of tears in his eyes. Something hardened in my heart as I walked away from my father. In those moments, it was as if all the years of desperate love and unfulfilled yearning I had carried for him twisted into bitter anger. I knew now that I was truly alone in the world.

  I was working in my cramped office, trying to put Damaspia’s records in perfect order before the court’s departure to Ecbatana, when three of Damaspia’s handmaidens traipsed in. My chest began to itch ferociously at the sight of them.

  I spied Pari standing in the middle. “What is the meaning of this?” I asked, half rising.

  A middle-aged woman, clearly acting as the head of the small army said, “The queen’s chief handmaiden sends us with her compliments. We are to help you prepare for your wedding.”

  I gulped as I surveyed their baskets overflowing with oils and what seemed like torture instruments to me. The thought of spending my remaining hours of freedom in their company made the itch on my chest spread to my belly.

  “How thoughtful.” I threw a surreptitious glance at the eunuchs who acted as my assistant scribes. “But there must be some mistake. I already have been assigned help.”

  “Oh. Pardon our intrusion. Her Majesty’s apartments have been in upheaval the past day. The queen mother has announced that she will be visiting her daughter-in-law this week. We have all been very busy making preparations. No doubt the chief handmaiden forgot that she had already sent you help.”

  I gave a fake smile, though I could not help reddening with guilt. It was only a little l
ie, I told myself. After all, I had been given help. Was it my fault that their support was of a scribal nature? Besides, I would not be surprised if my eunuchs knew more than I about Persian beauty treatments.

  To my relief, the queen’s servants left my room without further discussion. At the door, however, Pari turned around. “Who did she send to assist you?”

  “I can’t recall.”

  She crossed her arms. “How unlike you, mistress.”

  I narrowed my eyes and hissed, “It’s none of your affair.”

  She raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows. “If I don’t do my job, mistress, who do you think will be in trouble for it?” I had nothing to say and she turned as if to leave. At the door she hesitated. “Have a few hours then. Mind you, I will return.”

  It took me two days to secure an audience with the king’s cupbearer. Since my wedding day was four days hence, the delay of this crucial meeting—my last hope for reprieve-proved hard to bear. On my way to Nehemiah, Pari stopped me for the fifth time in two days.

  “Mistress! I must prepare you for the wedding. There is so much to do: your hair, nails, skin—”

  “Later,” I said and pushed her away.

  “But there is no time. You cannot go to your marriage bed thus! Your bridegroom—”

  “Can sit on his spear for all I care.” I threw Pari a fierce look, and walked off, leaving her openmouthed.

  Behind his back I may have called him Cousin Nehemiah, but he was too important an official to treat with casual intimacy. I greeted him with a bow; it took every bit of my strength to wait to be addressed by him before opening my mouth. With apprehension, I studied him for signs of his humor. As always, he was impeccable; his dark red hair had been neatly arranged into waves and covered at the crown by a pristine felt cap. His rich robe fell to the floor in colorful splendor; not a wrinkle could be found anywhere in that garment. I doubted the fabric would dare.

  He gazed at me through cool eyes, and I remembered with discomfort that in contrast to his fastidious appearance, I was even more of a rumpled mess than usual, having in my great agitation neglected the finer points of personal grooming for some days.

  “The bride,” he said finally, after studying me for a long time, his voice drenched in disapproval.

  “I don’t want to be,” I wailed.

  He sat on a stool and stretched leather-shod feet before him. “How tragic.”

  I gaped at him, thrown by his lack of sympathy. “Will you not help me?”

  “How? The queen has chosen you; the contracts have been sealed; the date is set; the king has planned an elaborate feast. It is the will of the Lord, Sarah. As our countryman Mordecai told his cousin Esther but one generation ago, Who knows but that you have come to royal position for such a time as this?”

  “The will of the Lord? It is your will! You could have told the queen the truth when she suggested my name; you could have said that I was unsuitable to be the wife of a Persian nobleman.”

  “That is not the truth or I would have said it.”

  I crossed my arms in exasperation. “Would you please just look at me? There is nothing in me to please a spoilt young man interested only in beautiful girls and hunting.”

  The barest hint of a smile touched Nehemiah’s lips. “I don’t know which you insult worse: yourself or your bridegroom. Either way, you underestimate both. You are a quick-witted, discerning, warmhearted woman. I have always thought you very pretty, Sarah, though you take as much care of yourself as a mangy dog.”

  I did not find being compared to a dog offensive; to my mind, it was the closest thing to the truth he had said thus far. Again, I tried to make him see reason. “My one talent is as a scribe. My husband will not care how many languages I speak, but at the palace they do. Here, I am worth something.”

  “You are not worth something because of how many languages you speak,” he said, beginning to sound exasperated.

  My eyes filled with tears I could not control. His implacability hit me with the weight of one of Persepolis’s giant columns. “Please, please, Cousin. I beg you! Stop this marriage.”

  At the sight of my tears Nehemiah’s face softened. He came to stand near me. “Child, trust God. He would not have placed you in this position without a reason.”

  I shook my head. “I trust your ability to make mistakes more than God’s ability to make His plans succeed!” I blurted, and without permission ran out of his chamber, knowing with certainty now that he would do nothing to stop the wedding.

  I made my way to my favorite hill, and collapsing on its soft dirt, I cried myself to sleep. It was morning when I awoke. With shock I realized that the following evening, I would be a married woman.

  Chapter Seven

  I went back to my office and spent several hours making certain that I left the affairs of the queen in good order for the scribe who would replace me. Lost in my work, I could pretend that there was no bridegroom and no new home waiting for me at the end of the morrow. I had just finished when Pari came in, her arms piled high with things so that I could barely see her face.

  To my astonishment, she dropped everything at my feet. Her face was white and tear-stained. “Mistress, I must prepare you for your wedding. I know you have no other help, and there is much to be done. I am not leaving until I finish.” She burst into tears.

  The sight of her misery smote my conscience. Had my refusal to mind her these past days landed her in trouble with her superiors? “I am sorry, Pari. You can do what you please with me. Did someone scold you on my account?”

  She jerked her head toward the ceiling, the Persian gesture for no.

  “What then?”

  “My father is very ill, mistress. I received word earlier; my mother says he is dying.”

  “I am so sorry! Does he live in the city of Persepolis?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then you must go to him. Why do you linger here? Go, go!”

  “It’s impossible! We must hasten to ready you.”

  “I’ll do it myself, Pari. How hard can it be? Long before the queen sent you to me, I learned how to bathe.”

  “Mistress, the queen has sent hair and skin treatments and cosmetics. Also, depilatories to remove,” she waved a hand toward my face, “excess hair. She even sent her own robe, which I’ll have to adjust to fit you. I do not think you can manage alone.”

  Neither did I. I knew I could get rid of the dirt on my skin, but I would probably not be able to tell the difference between the depilatory and the hair-conditioning cream, which could prove problematic.

  “I don’t have to use all of it.”

  “Most assuredly you do. Her Majesty sent express word that you were to use everything she sent.” Pari wiped her tears, but fresh ones replaced them.

  “Then I shall use everything. Go home. I will not tell anyone. Go home and bid your father good-bye.”

  Eventually, I was able to convince Pari to leave. I took the bundle the queen had sent to my room. Being early afternoon, the women with whom I shared my quarters were busy at their posts and would not return until supper. Sifting through the pile, I tried to decipher the purpose of the creams and oils in each jar and amphora. The world of women remained a mystery to me. Ironically, though I lived among them, I occupied a narrow world of scholarly administration. Sums I understood. Cosmetics made as much sense as Egyptian burial rites.

  I grasped the robe the queen had given me. Pale blue silk had been shaped into a simple bodice and full skirt, with wide, pleated sleeves that hung low, almost to the ground. Damaspia was narrower and longer than I. However, because the robe was open fully in the front, designed to be crisscrossed over the chest and held closed with a belt, I managed to put it on. No doubt Damaspia would have worn it over a tight silk under tunic, which would have peeked modestly under the blue robe. She had not sent me such an undergarment, knowing I could not fit into her form-fitting clothing. So I had to make do with one of my own homespun tunics.

  In the pile I fo
und a polished silver mirror and gazed at my reflection. The dress gaped in the front, showing far too much of my stained tunic underneath. At my feet the excess fabric pooled unflatteringly.

  I sighed. To this at least I could attend. It was the one feminine accomplishment that Aunt Leah had managed to drum into my head. I fetched my sewing kit and sat down to hem my wedding dress. It took me hours; there was so much fabric in the gathered skirt that no matter how much I sewed, I still had more left. I was exhausted by the time I took the last stitch with my ivory needle, for while my fingers had remained busy, my mind continued to grapple with overwhelming thoughts.

  What kind of man would my husband be? He was named after the second greatest Achaemenid king. Was that an indication of his pride, his sense of self-importance? Would he be cruel? As the wife of the king’s cousin, I would not be allowed to work, of course. But would he allow me freedom to read and write? Would I find him repulsive? Overbearing? Tyrannical? And my greater fears: Would he be disappointed with me? Would he disapprove of me?

  Anxious questions swirled around my mind with brutal intensity until I thought I should go mad with the weight of them. I had had no time to adjust to my fate. Fighting against this marriage had taken my whole focus for the first few days, and now less than a full day’s cycle remained for me to grow accustomed to the finality of the change in my life.

  I flung the exquisite blue garment at the foot of my bedding and began to sift through the jars sent by the queen. The women who shared my room came in and seeing my pile of goods, began to sigh over each article with enthusiasm. Why couldn’t it be one of them getting married, I thought. They would be happy now. They would be celebrating their good fortune rather than bemoaning their cruel fate.

  Their incessant cheer grew annoying and I crawled into my bed to put an end to their unwanted comments. My bed! I realized this was the last night I would sleep in its comfortable narrow confines. I had truly lost everything.