Game of Queens

by India Edghill

  And then suddenly it was over. I belonged to a new owner, and I could only hope he would be kind.

  * * *

  My new owner treated me as if I were a dog he had just gained: with soothing words and gentle care. Still clouded from poppy, I must have seemed as soft and yielding as a puppy, and as eager to please. I remember being bundled into a cushion-filled litter and carried through the streets while the man who had purchased me stroked my hair and promised me I had nothing to fear. Once we reached his dwelling, I was taken to the bathhouse and left there with all I needed to prepare myself.

  Clearly my master had good taste as well as wealth: the bath was open to the sky and lapis dragons coiled over the tiled walls. The tubs were formed of pale stone, and the soaps and ointments laid out were new, untouched. And there was a choice of scents.

  So. I have some choices left. Not many. But some.

  I lingered in the bath as long as I dared as the water cooled and the poppy withdrew, leaving my mind all too clear. I prolonged the ritual of combing out my hair and oiling my skin. Every minute I delayed was a small victory, but in the end I must submit. I could only hope what I must endure would not be too degrading, but I knew that whatever happened, I must conceal my disgust. “Smile,” Zebbani had told me, “Smile.” “And if I cannot?” I had said. “Shed a few tears—and then smile. Always smile.”

  I survived the cutting. This cannot be worse. I wrapped the thin robe around me and tied the gold-spangled sash tight—as if a silken knot would protect me. Then I pulled the small ivory box from its hiding place and opened it. The gilded pills promised sweet oblivion, turning painful reality into soft dreams. I tipped two of the pills into my hand, lifted my hand to my mouth …

  … and hesitated with the opium already upon my tongue. Yes, opium softened life, but it also weakened body and mind, leaving a man vulnerable.

  And I am a man. I am. Yes, a few bits of flesh had been cut away from my body. But I still had my mind and my will.

  I spat out the gilded pills into my hand. No. I will not let Haman win. I will not succumb to despair. I will live, and I will prosper, and someday I will make Haman suffer as he has made me suffer. As he made my mother suffer. No matter how long it takes, or what I have to do, I will see Haman groveling in the dirt at my feet. And then I will kill him with my own hands.

  And I could not achieve that goal if the Lady of Poppies ruled me. I set the ivory box down and picked up the polished silver mirror. I studied my reflection in the shining metal. Smiles I could manage, but I did not know how to banish the cold anger from my eyes. That, I must learn. But for tonight, lowered lashes would have to hide that unsuitable emotion. With any luck at all, my owner would merely think me shy.

  A slave silently led me to the master’s bedchamber, and there I waited until he chose to join me. I had thought myself prepared, but his entrance still startled me. At last I took a sober look at my future: a man in late middle age, fleshy of body and face, with nothing to create beauty in his appearance but his eyes. While all else about him at best could be called plain, oddly enough his eyes were perfect, long and soft and dark as ebony. To my surprise, he looked as nervous as I felt.

  “I am Orodes. Lord Orodes.” He fidgeted with his sash and those lovely eyes of his refused to look at me. “I know I am neither young nor handsome. But you will find me a kind master. I am neither quick to anger nor impatient.”

  Why is he telling me this? I am his, bought and paid for. I lowered my lashes as if shy, thinking hard. I could not escape what he wanted of me. Now, what did he truly desire? I remembered Zebbani’s words:

  A woman must study the man who owns her, even if only for an hour. She must seek out what will please him, what he yearns for. Sometimes he himself does not know what it is he craves. Learn that, and the slave becomes the master … in the bedchamber, if nowhere else.

  Now, in this bedchamber, I studied my new master carefully. He regarded me hopefully, like a dog longing for a soft hand and a gentle word. He desires love. I cannot give him that.

  But I remembered what Zebbani had taught me: find out what a woman wants, she had said, and give her what she desires. This was no different. I drew a deep breath and walked across the room to stand beside him. When he looked up at me, I smiled, and held out my hand. Lord Orodes took my hand and kissed it, which astonished me.

  “You will not be sorry,” he began. “I will be generous, give you jewels and—”

  “No,” I said. “Not now.” And before he had a chance to ask anything of me, I leaned forward and kissed his mouth.

  When I pulled back, he took his hands from me at once. Clearly he feared to frighten me. “Why do we not sit and talk, and drink some wine?”

  “We will do whatever you wish, lord. I am yours.”

  He laughed as if I had made the wittiest of jests. “Why, so you are—what is your name?”

  “I call myself Bagoas, lord. But of course you may call me whatever pleases you.” I had swiftly learned when the slave trader had renamed me that Bagoas—“beautiful boy”—was a common name among good-looking young eunuchs. That knowledge made me cherish the name instead of despising it—for how could Haman find one Bagoas among a city full of them?

  “You are beautiful enough for a Bagoas. Beautiful enough for any name you please.” Again I saw wistful longing in his eyes.

  I reached out and took his hand. I was not sure what to do next, but guessed that he was no novice at this game. And I did not want to sit, and to talk, and to drink wine, and to pretend we were friends. I wanted the act over and done with, at least for tonight. So I said,

  “You are my first.” That was truth, if I did not count Zebbani—who was a woman. The words sounded unsteady, trembling between us.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Truly?” I nodded, and he laughed. I stared at him, baffled, until he said, “I assumed the auctioneer told less than absolute truth when he described your virtues. Well, Bagoas, I am sorry—”

  It took no great wisdom to know what he was about to say, and that I should not let him say it. “Well, I am not. How could I be sorry that I have come to a man who is gentle, and kind, and … and…”

  I could think of nothing else to say, but he had already gathered me into his arms and was stroking my hair. I was glad, for my face was hidden from him, and while he truly was kind and gentle—and as he had said, generous—that did not mean I found him desirable. But he must think me, if not eager, at least willing. So I pushed back from him, and before he could speak, I put my hands on his cheeks.

  “I know nothing, so you must teach me, my lord.” Then I kissed him again, and whispered, “You have such beautiful eyes.…”

  * * *

  After that, Lord Orodes was mine to do as I liked with. I was too canny to pretend an instant, overwhelming passion for him. Lord Orodes was softhearted, but that did not mean he was a fool; he would never believe that I had fallen in love with him on sight. But that I grew to love him—that he believed, because he wished to believe. I feigned love, granting his unspoken hope. And he had desired me at first sight; I do not know if he truly loved me, or merely confused love and craving.

  I did not really love him, of course—but I gave him no reason to suspect that. And I did become fond of him. Why would I not? Lord Orodes treated me generously and kindly.

  In addition to fine garments and costly trinkets, he permitted me great freedom, and granted any request I made of him. Since I had the sense to ask only what he could easily give, he happily gave me that and more. He even allowed me to learn how to ride—an activity I found uncomfortable at first, but one that I deemed it necessary to learn. A man on horseback was a man only a swift ride away from freedom. No matter how kind my current owner, I never for one heartbeat forgot that I was only a slave.

  A slave could never avenge his mother’s murder.

  Somehow I must set my feet upon a road that led to Haman, and to revenge—a vow I swore anew the day I learned Haman had married again. His n
ew wife proved extremely fertile; Haman already had one new son and another on the way. By the time Zeresh ceased providing heirs to Haman, he possessed ten sons.

  The three daughters Haman sired did not survive more than an hour after their birth. Haman did not value girls.

  * * *

  Two years. So long a time, when one is young. So brief a time, when one loses something precious.

  I lived with Lord Orodes for two years, and I learned a great deal from him, for he was truly a gentle man, with excellent, exquisite taste. I learned to appreciate good food, good wines, good art. Lord Orodes taught me elegance and style, and I was grateful.

  Always my owner seemed to look to the future, and to its hazards. One night, as we lay together on the linen sheets that covered his wide silver-chased bed, he clasped my hands and made me be still.

  “Bagoas, my dear boy, there is something you should know.” Lord Orodes smiled as I stared at him, oddly uneasy. “Oh, do not fear, nothing is wrong.” He caressed my cheek; sighed. “You are so young, so beautiful—and I am neither. No, do not deny it, Bagoas.” He looked at me intently. “So I have settled my affairs in such a way that when I die, you will be freed, and a sum of money settled upon you so that you may live as you please.”

  I had not expected this—nor did I expect the grief that sent tears pressing hot behind my eyes. I flung myself into his arms, and for once my wet eyes and my caresses were not calculated. I managed to control my unruly emotions long enough to say, “But you will not die for a long time—you must not!” As I said the words, even I believed I meant them; baffled, I pressed my face into his neck.

  Although we never again spoke of what would be mine when he died, it was not necessary. My unfeigned affection, gratitude, and tears had pleased Lord Orodes. When I think of him, I am always glad I gave him that honest pleasure, and I still feel sorrow that I could not love him as he deserved. But we are formed as it pleases the gods to make us, and how and who we love is not ours to choose.

  I learned that lesson hard, and even now, long years later, as I look upon my beloved wife, I sometimes hear silent laughter ripple through the air.

  * * *

  Lord Orodes lived only another half a year; that summer he slipped while descending the Great Staircase and broke the bones in his wrist as he tried to save himself. But broken bones did not kill him—that injury was easily splinted and bound, and would have healed. The small rents in his skin destroyed him, wounds so insignificant the physician barely noted them, and they scabbed over and were forgotten.

  All I can think is that sealed some unclean matter into Lord Orodes’s body, for within a few days, his hand swelled, that pressure opened the scratches, and pus oozed from them. The physician forced vile-smelling concoctions down Orodes’s throat, and bound the contaminated hand with black ointment, but none of his remedies eased my master’s pain.

  I sat with him all day and all night, wiping his fire-hot skin with cool cloths, coaxing lemon-water through his dry lips. Nothing helped. The infection blazed through him, inexorable and deadly.

  At least he knew I was there. I held his hand as life burned out of him, and when his skin slowly cooled until his hand lay cold and heavy in mine, all I could be was glad he no longer suffered. I bent and kissed his hand, and then I slowly rose and went quietly to my own room.

  I did not think of what Lord Orodes’s death meant to me, nor did I weep. I was too weary. All I did was curl onto my bed and fall instantly to sleep. Nor did I dream. A small gift from the gods.

  * * *

  What happened next should not have surprised me, but I was still young. I received another lesson, iron-hard and as valuable as gold. Lord Orodes’s heirs—two nephews and a married daughter, all three greedy and grasping, which I suppose is why I had never seen any of them until their wealthy relative lay dead—produced his will, which allocated all his fortune to them. Of my manumission and bequest, nothing, and I swiftly realized why.

  I, too, was part of Lord Orodes’s wealth, and his heirs had no intention of losing so valuable an asset. By the time I learned this, I was locked in my room while they sought a purchaser who would offer the outrageous sum the heirs had set upon my youth, my beauty, and my many exquisite skills.

  I shook with anger and did as much damage as possible to my room and its contents—but I did not make the mistake of deciding that all men were cruel and all women treacherous.

  I did decide that if ever I had the chance to repay those two men and that woman, I would do so. They not only had consigned me to more years as a slave, they had thrown Lord Orodes’s good name down into the mud. Perhaps they thought I did not know he had promised me freedom when he died, and I did not waste time and breath contesting their treachery.

  * * *

  The Phoenix Garden offered the most for me, and so I became the property of one of the most exclusive brothels in Shushan. That was also the year Great Darius’s death shattered the world. All Shushan watched as the Immortals escorted the royal body of the King of Kings through the main streets on its final journey. Since the Phoenix Garden stood three stories high, its rooftop permitted us a view over the lower buildings; although not close, still we could stare upon the royal funeral procession’s steady progress.

  Even I stared, just as did the rest of the Garden’s elegant whores. I had never seen such a spectacle before—well, few had.

  First came the king’s favorite horse, a stallion black as midnight; the horse wore a saddle and bridle so gilded and studded with gems the leather could not be seen; peacock feathers crowned his head. His coat gleamed, oiled with frankincense, myrrh, and cinnamon. An Immortal led the stallion, which paced calmly; so smoothly and serenely that I suspected it had been fed opium in its morning grain.

  More Immortals followed, rank on rank, marching as solemnly as the black stallion. To look upon these elite soldiers, each in a blue-and-yellow uniform, each carrying a ceremonial lance tipped with a silver pomegranate, was to look upon a marvel, not upon men. In the noonday sun the Immortals were bright shadows, impossible to count. After the Immortals walked the Magi in dark blue robes: astrologers who summoned the future by reading the stars in the heavens; alchemists who dealt in the elixirs of life and death.

  And then Darius, King of Kings, passed through the streets of Shushan for the last time.

  Six white oxen with gilded horns pulled the huge chariot that carried all that remained of Great Darius, Ruler of the World. He left Shushan immured in a sarcophagus of sandalwood from Hind; so much gold and so many gems adorned the coffin that the costly sandalwood was hidden.

  I would happily have watched in silence, but the other girls and boys chattered away like Egyptian monkeys. “Oooh, look at the jewels!” “They say spices—including saffron!—fill the coffin around the king’s body.” “And frankincense, too. Look, there are the Seven Princes!” “The royal harem will be desolate. The new king is so very young!” “Oh, look. Oh, isn’t it all wonderful? Sad, of course, but…”

  Isn’t it all wasteful? But I said only, “Even in death, the King of Kings must have only the best.” Who could argue with so true a statement?

  Behind the sarcophagus rode the Seven Princes of the Face, and following them uncounted nobles; court favorites; personal household slaves; regular army; more horses with golden bridles and braided manes and tails; snow-white oxen with gilded horns.

  Then the last doomed oxen plodded past, and the procession vanished. And the mistress of the Phoenix Garden clapped her hands sharply and ordered us all to go downstairs. She anticipated many lucrative hours ahead.

  I walked down the smooth brick stairs. The gaudy spectacle, the brief hour of amusement, was over. It was time to go back to work.

  * * *

  I did not remain more than half a year at the Phoenix Garden, for one patron desired me for his own—not so much for my fine eyes, but for my connection with Lord Orodes. The man seemed to believe I could imbue him with Lord Orodes’s virtues. I had prayed
he would tire of me, but he did not, and at last offered so much gold that the Phoenix Garden consented to let him purchase me outright. I would far rather have remained in the brothel.

  The man to whom I now belonged owned a fortune so new almost all of it was in coin rather than land and livestock. His name was Isqanqur, and he was everything Lord Orodes had not been: sleek, well-built, handsome.

  Lowborn, hard-hearted, crude.

  Isqanqur displayed his wealth lavishly in his dress and in his dwelling. Too lavishly.

  He had paid an extravagant sum to obtain me, and he treated me as he treated any other expensive creature he purchased. As something without a mind, without feelings. Something to be used.

  I despised Isqanqur, and he knew it. He knew I thought him crude, untutored. Oh, not because I ever said a word against him—no, I was more subtle than that. More cruel; only later did I realize how cruel and how foolish I had been. I merely let my distaste lurk in my tone of voice, in the tilt of my head, the slant of my eyes. I had thought I feigned all my affection with Lord Orodes. Now I realized how much true fondness I had for him, and how far I still had to travel to be even half as successful as the courtesan Zebbani, for I could not pretend even to like Isqanqur, let alone to offer up to him a passionate desire. No, not even to save myself from a whipping. I learned that the hard way, when Isqanqur made a sneering remark about Lord Orodes and I could not keep the scornful curve from my lips, conveying all too clearly that I thought Isqanqur less than the dust on Orodes’s grave.

  That was my first whipping, and after it Isqanqur made me crawl over to him and kiss his feet.

  I did as he ordered, and as I set my lips to his feet, I learned an invaluable lesson—although it was not the lesson Isqanqur wished to teach me. I learned that he could not shame me, because I did not care. Yes, I despised him. But I did not care. I did not even care enough to hate him. He could abuse my body; he could not touch my soul.

  I learned another lesson from Isqanqur as well—I discovered what Haman truly was. For Isqanqur was hot-tempered and unkind, but he was still a man. Not a good man, perhaps—but he was no less and no more than man.