Hadassah

by Tommy Tenney

  Haman first became completely still. The color drained from his face so swiftly and dramatically that Xerxes blinked several times to make sure some trick of the light was not deceiving him. Haman’s eyes first narrowed inquisitively, then furrowed with incredulity, then finally widened with pure shock. The King did not give him the least encouragement with a smile or a wink, for of course he was not being facetious; Xerxes was naturally innocent of any subterfuge. He had no idea of the private feud Haman had been pursuing, nor of Mordecai’s Jewish heritage.

  Haman looked around him as if someone had scribbled a solution for exiting this conversation gracefully somewhere upon the Palace walls. Finally he fixed the King with as much irritation as he would dare exhibit.

  “Your Majesty, surely you jest—”

  “And why would I jest on such a matter of import?”

  Haman squinted to see if he could discern any deception in the monarch. But Xerxes’ gaze was level and honest. Yet Haman would not, could not, allow himself to even consider what might be the truth: that the King had possessed no foreknowledge of Haman’s intentions, that all this had been nothing more than some sort of diabolical coincidence.

  When, of course, it was a “coincidence” of completely different origins. I know it was entirely divine.

  “I said, your Majesty, that your assignment for me is—well, perhaps a jest in a highly ironic sort of way—but given the totality of the issue, well, perhaps not the best chosen . . .”

  “What in the name of our god Ahura are you talking about, Haman? I simply asked your advice on a troubling question, and given your most astute reply, I gave you a straightforward assignment. What is ironic or comical in any of this?”

  Haman took a step backward, obviously just beginning to absorb the terrifying truth. Xerxes was serious, and he was completely unaware of Mordecai’s ethnic origins. Haman would not get his hanging today—nowhere close to it.

  “Nothing, sir” came his eventual reply.

  “Good. Then obey my order at once. And don’t go pawning off this task on some subordinate. I want this recognition to come from the King’s Master of the Audiences himself. I will meet you at my royal viewing balcony in one hour. And there had better be a crowd below, Haman. Then I will see you at sunset, dressed for tonight’s banquet.”

  “Let it be done, your Majesty.”

  Shortly thereafter, an Amalekite guard appeared before Mordecai. I am sad to say that my poppa had lapsed into an even more stupefied state of disorientation, hunger, dehydration and fatigue. His cross-legged form there in the King’s Gate appeared to have sagged with time and stillness, like some great statue that the centuries and the elements had mercilessly sculpted and eroded.

  The guard, no doubt aghast at both the identity and the disheveled state of the person they would soon have to exalt, bent down and poked Mordecai with an emphatic finger jab. Mordecai’s head only pitched forward a few more degrees.

  The guard called sneeringly to this castoff from society.

  There came no reaction.

  “Are you, sir, Mordecai? Of Susa?”

  The grizzled head rose a bit, and his eyes now bore into the guard’s own.

  “Sir, His Majesty King Xerxes wishes to see you. At once. On a matter of the utmost national urgency.”

  Mordecai’s eyes locked onto a sight across the man’s shoulder guard—a sight that turned the blood in his veins to ice. A twisted cross.

  “Yes,” came Mordecai’s voice, low and gruff. “Most likely my death.”

  “Hardly,” responded the guard under his breath.

  But Mordecai did not hear the whispered rejoinder; he was in the throes of trying to stand. He grabbed both of the man’s hands and pulled himself up, his knees shaking from side to side.

  “No matter, I am ready,” Mordecai said. “It is before the date, but I understand. I am not surprised.” In near delirium he began, “Dear YHWH, I come to you. . . .”

  Mordecai already believed himself on the way to heaven when he opened his eyes and, through a swirling mist of various bodily agonies, glimpsed the King and Haman standing before him. The sight confused him, for he had expected to see them upon the moment of his demise, not after the passing of his soul.

  Maybe I have not yet died, he corrected himself then. Perhaps the moment is at hand.

  And then the figure he had taken for Xerxes bent over and brought a goblet of wine to his lips. That certainly made no sense. The liquid burned a welcome path down his throat and ignited a fire in his stomach that at least brought the sights before him into a clearer focus. He would have preferred food first, but who was he to complain, standing as he did on the brink of eternity?

  It was honey wine, his throat soon told him. Soon strength and alertness began to seep back into his limbs. The man who resembled Xerxes then fed him some goat cheese and a little bread.

  “Am I dreaming?” he asked.

  “No,” said the King, or some royal impostor. “But you are in dire need of a bath and a meal. Why are you attired such?”

  “I am in mourning, Your Highness. This is the ritual garment of sackcloth and ashes.”

  “Oh. I am very sorry. I hope today’s events help in some way to soothe your loss. Can you stand, my dear Mordecai?”

  And my poppa found that indeed, he could—with the Xerxes person supporting him about the shoulders.

  Mordecai looked out, and the scene below him almost caused him to lose consciousness—a crowd like the grains of sand on a beach stood waiting before him. “Let us give them what they wait for, shall we?” asked the King. He leaned forward and removed from a box at his seat a long velvet robe. A royal robe. He raised the shimmering garment high in the air, and without a second’s delay the crowd below roared its approval. Xerxes raised it even higher, turned slowly on his heel and said, “My fellow Persians! Please witness with me the placing of this royal robe upon one Mordecai of Susa, for whom vigilance and loyalty will prove this day to be fortuitous qualities indeed. For let it be known that four years ago, Mordecai undertook great danger to warn me of an impending plot against the royal person. And thanks to his prompt warning, my own life was spared. The perpetrators were duly punished, and now the loyalty is being belatedly rewarded. Let all within this kingdom know that Xerxes rewards those who serve him! Reward delayed is not reward denied. Let this be a sign to all of you! Let the King’s gratitude be known, and let honor and respect fall like rain upon the shoulders of this most beloved of servants. Hail!”

  “Hail!” came the shouted reply, a rampart of jubilant sound rolling across the Palace grounds to the astounded ears of the Jew Mordecai.

  49

  And so it came about that on a certain day many years ago, a ragged Jew was given the ultimate tribute by a grudging Amalekite, their respective races mutual enemies from time immemorial.

  For several hours the streets of Susa bore tribute to one of YHWH’s most delicious ironies, that the very man who had plotted Mordecai’s death the night before now led him on the back of the King’s mightiest steed, arrayed as no one had ever seen the lowly scribe—his erstwhile executioner shouting praises and honor to this great friend of the King, this heroic Mordecai of Susa. The streets’ fringes grew thick with spectators, especially those of Susa’s Jewish quarter—where Mordecai had specially asked to be taken—and where many frowned in utter bewilderment. They had heard of Haman and the decree he had spawned. Their knowledge of it had made their recent days a living hell. Most of them even knew of the conflict that had given rise to this impending doom. And so the sight of these two men even occupying the same proximity was more than they could comprehend. Some of them shouted confused queries at Mordecai, which the dazed man failed to hear or answer.

  As for friends and acquaintances of Haman, most later commented that they had never seen the Palace luminary so glaze-eyed, so mechanical in his steps, so aimless in his direction. The usually keen-eyed Master of the Audiences seemed to have been struck by a heavy wooden beam.
Those members of his family and his band of killers who watched the event came away utterly disoriented, unsure of what might arise next. Should they flee for their lives? Preemptively attack the Palace? Rush out and stop the ridiculous charade before them? None of them could marshal the proper clarity to choose a path of action.

  In fact, Haman’s own daughter provided the day’s crowning moment. Seeing the impromptu parade approach from her rooftop parapet, and knowing that her father was preparing to execute Mordecai with the King’s permission, she decided to do her part. As she had been cleaning out her bedchambers at the time and happened to be holding a full chamber pot with the intention of hoisting the contents out the window, she devised her own form of degradation. She waited and, at the final moment, emptied her container of human waste upon the downcast man pulling the horse—whom she assumed to be Mordecai. Only when the befouled figure glanced up her way just in time to see the rain of slop reach his face and for her to recognize his features did she realize her terrible mistake. The surrounding spectators erupted in shocked yet raucous laughter. It is said she never recovered.

  As the hours wore on, Haman’s steps grew slow with fatigue and his voice hoarse from shouting Mordecai’s praises, and he began to edge back toward the King’s Gate. As for Mordecai, he had now fully regained both his energy and his morale, and he sat as straight as a spear atop the royal stallion. He still did not think too hard about how he had arrived there or what had taken place to bring about such monumental irony. He certainly had no way to discern whether this meant the end of the murderous decree hanging over his people’s heads. He had barely grasped that this was reward for a deed he had long thought overlooked.

  He was, literally and figuratively, simply there for the ride. But it turned out to be the ride of a lifetime. The prayers silently moving his lips were no less full of gratitude to G-d and further requests that He protect His people.

  I did not even hear of Mordecai’s baffling afternoon until after it was finished, as I stood busily watching over the final preparations of the banquet and Jesse barged in, panting and laughing at the same time. Jesse told me the story of the parade, of Haman’s demeanor both then and at home later when Jesse and Harbona had arrived to escort Haman to the Palace—seeing the man standing forlorn among his family, everyone looking like they had just seen a ghost. Haman’s wife stood berating the man in a loud voice, exclaiming that if Mordecai was of Jewish descent, he could not stand against him, that his fate was sealed! And somewhere in a back corner a daughter was cowering, afraid to meet her befouled father.

  When Jesse had softly spoken up to say that it was Haman’s time to leave for the Palace banquet, he and his family had turned to the eunuch with openly incredulous looks.

  “Are you mad? I need at least an hour to clean up, to prepare!”

  Jesse had shaken his head, managing to banish the amusement he felt from his expression. “Master, her Highness insists on starting precisely at sunset. If I do not have you there right on time, not only may I lose my head, but you will certainly be shut out of the dinner. Her orders were most explicit.”

  “But I smell like . . .” Haman waved his arms and glanced about him with a wild stare rather than elaborate on the nature of his stench. “Give me ten minutes!”

  “I am sorry, sir. We are already late leaving, and I fear we may still not arrive on time to walk over with the King. If you do not come with me now, I will have to decline her Highness’s invitation on your behalf.”

  “Go!” Haman’s wife shouted in exasperation as she pulled a fresh robe around her husband. “Just go! Do you want to compound the day’s misery? Go and be with them, make excuses, douse yourself with perfume on the way—just go!”

  I laughed so exuberantly upon hearing the tale that I dropped something loud, a large silver mirror I believe, upon the marble tile.

  With every peal of laughter I could feel my inner strength to face the evening’s challenges grow.

  And the evening’s challenges did arrive, both of them, within minutes of the appointed time. Jesse’s insistence had borne fruit.

  This night the banquet took place in my private quarters—my most familiar and comfortable environment—lavishly decorated for the occasion. Veil after veil of wispy curtains were suspended from ceilings, anchored to walls, and shimmered softly in the evening breeze that swept in from opened doorways. The arrangement gave the rooms an evanescent appeal and separated the main spaces in a most ethereal yet effective manner. In a corner, largely out of sight, one of my handmaidens sat fluidly playing the harp.

  And finally, the air inside was redolent with every form of delicacy most favored by the King. Roasted lamb, slow-baked venison, vegetables steamed in the meat’s own vapors. Vast quantities of wine, of course. Bowls of curdled cream laced with honey and studded with every sort of berry and fruit.

  I hope my own appearance was in keeping with my quarters’ beauty and taste, for I had certainly endeavored toward that end. As men’s preference in women and female attire seldom changes much over time, I will not repeat for you the now familiar adornments and anointings in which I had indulged. Suffice it to say that I had worked hard to make myself the evening’s ultimate enticement—for the King, that is.

  The two men swept in. At this banquet it was Haman, appearing strangely disheveled and smelling rather farmlike, who proved the quieter of the two. But all the better. I blossomed that night into a vivacious hostess, reminding Xerxes all the while that I could hold my own at conversation. I even courteously tried to engage Haman in talk of his family and other innocuous subjects. But his responses were brief. I also recall that, for some reason, the food that night bore the most exquisite taste of any dishes I have ever eaten, before or since.

  Haman confined himself to attacking the wine riatins on each side of the table early and often, which of course did not disappoint me in the least. For most of the evening he sat on the other side of the table and gazed blearily into thin air. Neither Haman’s aroma nor my appearance compelled the King to favor our guest’s side of the table. And so it did not take long for Xerxes to venture closer to me, then launch into the salient question at hand.

  “Finally, my dear Esther, what is your request? For it will still be granted, to be sure—even if it is half the kingdom.”

  And now the moment had come—no more delays possible, no more strategic retreats from the urgency of my plight. Now was the time to risk my favor, to achieve my ultimate purpose. This was the instant of my greatest influence and the reward of intimacy. I took a deep breath, looked him straight in the eye and softly launched into my plea.

  “If I have found favor in your sight, your Majesty, and if it pleases the King, my petition is to be given my life, and my request is the life of my people. One man has schemed a monstrous plot against my whole people. We have been betrayed, I and my people both, to be destroyed. Killed. Annihilated. If we were only going to be sold as slaves, I would have kept silent, for it would not be worth troubling the King. But I believe my life and that of countless innocent men, women and children is worth begging your mercy.”

  I did not look at Haman as I said this. I remained totally focused on the King—refusing to empower my enemy with so much as an inclusive glance. Yet I could see that the Agagite had emerged from his despondent state and sat listening with as much concentration as he could muster.

  The King, for his part, became instantly enraged. His complexion flushed, his eyes narrowed in anger. His fingers gripped the stem of his wine goblet so tightly that they turned white. His voice came out as the perfect combination of a hiss and a low growl.

  “Who is he, and where is he? Who would dare to do such a thing?”

  In one of the most exquisite, destiny-defining moments of my life, I turned to Haman. I watched his eyes begin to widen in fear. I pulled my arm up above the tabletop and pointed, right in his face.

  “The very same man who murdered my family. This wicked, evil Haman is my foe, my enemy, your Majest
y! For I am a Jew.”

  At once, Haman’s breathing went from a contented purr to a frantic pant. He jerked upward in his seat and put on a groveling expression for probably the first time in his adult life. He almost fell backward, so great was his terror.

  “Oh no, your Majesty. There’s been a mistake. A terrible misunderstanding. . . .”

  Yet something in Haman’s face, in the manner of his speech, virtually radiated guilt. Xerxes stood so abruptly that the table jerked backward with a clatter. He threw down his napkin, turned on his heel and marched out the door into the gardens. Rage seemed to have rendered him speechless.

  “Oh, your Highness, I had no idea!” Haman yelled, nearly weeping as he knelt abruptly and, to my astonishment, clutched my leg. “I mean, yes, your race and mine have been at odds for centuries, but that is a cultural matter—if I had known you were of Jewish blood, I would have never considered the edict! I would have found another way! It was nothing personal, it was just a terrible old Jew who sits at the Palace gates who refused to—”

  “That ‘old Jew’ is my father,” I interrupted, feeling a bit dizzy from the extraordinary irony of my declaration.

  At that news he sank down onto the floor, and the seal of his impending death imprinted itself upon his face. Yet he turned to me again while a final hope of survival flickered upon his countenance.

  “Please, your Highness. You are a person of mercy. You have received mercy yourself, on occasion. Please grant me pity.”

  “The same pity you would have granted to the children and babies of Jewish mothers?” I asked. “No, I fear the only reason you mention pity is because you have been caught and exposed. If you want any quarter, you must ask the King.”

  “No, your Highness!” he cried, barely coherent now. He grabbed my wrists and nearly pulled me to the ground. “Only your kind heart can save me now!”

  Something about Haman’s desperation suddenly made me fearful of being alone in the room with him. I quickly turned from him and retreated to a couch in the corner to await Xerxes’ return. As I did, Haman fell headlong upon the floor and, actually clutching a corner of my dress, tore a piece of the fabric. I turned, gave him my most fierce scowl and took my seat. Haman, in the full throes of death-panic, was not to be deterred. He followed me and cried out in a voice unlike I had ever heard from the throat of a man, “Please! Oh please, your Highness!”