Esther : Royal Beauty (9781441269294)

by Hunt, Angela Elwell

  “Mordecai, Miriam!” Binyamin shouted from outside, his voice stronger and deeper than I had ever heard it. “I have come for my bride!”

  Quickly, lest the crowd become boisterous, Miriam helped me with the finishing touches—a pair of new sandals, a finely stitched mantle, a veil of sheer silk. I paused to look in the bronze mirror—had I finally become as beautiful as brides are supposed to be? I saw only a slim figure beneath a veil from which two anxious eyes peered back at me.

  Sighing, I took a moment to give Miriam a quick hug, then opened the door to greet my husband. “I am ready.”

  I gripped the hand extended to me and walked rapidly through the courtyard and into the street. At the head of the joyful procession, I walked with my betrothed to the home he had prepared. For some inexplicable reason we walked not toward Kidon’s house, but toward the royal fortress. I wondered if Binyamin had taken a job at the King’s Gate. Then we were standing beneath a wedding canopy while the rabbi read the traditional blessing: “Our sister, may you increase to thousands upon thousands, and may your offspring possess the gates of their enemies.”

  Someone shouted with joy while my bridegroom tugged on my hand, leading me to a banquet where food had been piled upon groaning tables. I sat beside him and ate and drank and smiled at those who lifted their cups to celebrate my happiness.

  Then my groom stood and lifted me, carrying me away from the table and toward the bridal chamber. I trembled in his strong arms, but tried to smile and be brave. When he lowered me to the bridal bed, I finally looked into his face—and screamed.

  The face wasn’t Binyamin’s.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Harbonah

  LIKE A BEATEN DOG, my master chose to lick his wounds in a solitary den. He could have directed his court to join him at any of the royal capitals—Babylon, Susa, Ecbatana, Pasargadae, or Persepolis—but after the defeat at Salamis, the royal entourage traveled to Sardis, a quiet city conquered by Cyrus generations before. Vashti had not gone with us to Greece, but she traveled to Sardis with the rest of the concubines and children. I wondered if the king would relent and summon her to his chamber, but my master seemed determined to obey his own royal edict. Not only did he not summon Vashti, he did not allow her to appear at court. She spent her days in the harem with her children, and whether she enjoyed that duty, I cannot say.

  As our sojourn beneath blue skies and sunny weather extended through weeks and months, I soon realized why my master did not seem to miss the woman who had once thoroughly occupied his mind and heart. As part of the royal family and the king’s army, the king’s younger brother Masistes remained with us, accompanied by his beautiful wife, Parmys, and teenaged daughter, Artaynta.

  With no queen to direct the court’s social activities, Parmys blossomed in the light of the king’s attention. My master frequently invented tasks for Masistes, sending him on journeys to visit the governor of one satrap or another. While his brother was away, the king privately entertained his sister-in-law and niece.

  The first time he asked me to arrange a private dinner, I knew the king had decided to seek solace in a woman’s love. Unfortunately, the woman he set his affections on was his brother’s wife. He did his best to charm the lovely Parmys, offering her jewels and gowns and slaves, but she remained steadfast and faithful to her absent husband.

  While the king offered himself and his kingdom to his sister-in-law, I watched from the shadows and clenched my hands, frustrated at my master’s weakness. Why would a king with so many concubines pine for a woman he should not have?

  The attempt to win Parmys’s love might have continued for months, but the king’s wounded spirit needed gratification. When the woman would not submit to him, I feared his mood might grow darker than it had been at Salamis, but then the king surprised everyone by arranging a marriage between ten-year-old Crown Prince Darius and Parmys’s daughter, Artaynta.

  As I witnessed the wedding ceremony, I wondered if I judged my royal master too harshly. Had his attentions toward Parmys been something other than seduction? Being a eunuch, I had no experience with such things. Perhaps I had misread his gestures and his words. Perhaps he had only intended to arrange a fruitful marriage between his son and her daughter.

  Artaynta moved into the king’s house to be near her child-husband, but those of us who padded through those marble hallways after dark stumbled over myriad secrets. We learned who sleeps where.

  So I knew when and where the king managed to seduce his pretty daughter-in-law. And in the jolt of that realization I understood that he had not arranged his son’s marriage out of loving concern for his son. He had married the prince to Parmys’s pretty daughter so that he could seduce the girl and strike at the woman who had spurned his advances.

  In that instant of comprehension, nausea rippled like a slippery eel through my gut.

  Slaves are not supposed to exhibit feelings, and eunuchs are assumed to have none. But though my body has been mutilated and some natural desires suppressed, my heart still beat with feeling and my brain still reasoned. I spent more hours with my king than any living man, and I understood him better than he understood himself. I loved him—not with lustful feeling, nor with brotherly compassion. I loved him because I understood him, and because I have known him since childhood. I loved him because I saw the seeds of greatness in him.

  I loved him because I hoped his greatness would overcome the weaknesses that caused him to stumble.

  I did not understand his compulsion to seduce women—after all, at thirty-eight my master ought to have mastered his lustful impulses—and I wondered if the defeat at Salamis had created a hunger in him, a yearning to steal what he could not otherwise gain. An endeavor in which he might finally feel successful.

  The king’s foolish affair might have come to nothing but for three unexpected developments: first, Vashti, languishing in her isolation, took it upon herself to weave a varicolored cloak for the king. Whether she sought to reacquire her position or assure him of her love, I cannot say. But she used the finest threads and the most lustrous colors, creating a garment worthy of a royal conqueror. Since she could not personally present it to him, she ordered one of the eunuchs to deliver it.

  If she’d sent the cloak in the midst of the war preparations, I daresay the king would have thoughtlessly set it aside or given it to one of his vice-regents. But flush with the foolishness of a man caught up in a new infatuation, my master put on the garment and preened before a polished sheet of bronze, imagining how his new love would appreciate his fine appearance.

  The gods frowned on us the day Artaynta awoke in the king’s bed and saw her king shining in his new cloak like some sort of majestic bird. Later that morning, as the king held her and whispered renewed declarations of love, he asked her to divulge her heart’s desire so he could fulfill it. Being a silly girl in mind and heart, Artaynta asked for the cloak she’d seen him wearing.

  If I had been present at the time, I would have done my best to warn the girl about the taboo pertaining to the king’s royal robes. A king’s garment was more than mere clothing—the superstitious Persians believed that a royal robe possessed magical power, conferring royalty upon its wearers. He or she who asked to wear something the king had worn could be asking for the right to the throne . . . and the first thing a usurper would do was don the garment of the fallen king.

  But foolish girls and unsteady kings did not think clearly. My master, having given his word, felt he had to give the cloak to Artaynta. Then the silly girl was unwise enough to wear it at court.

  Vashti was not present, of course, but everyone who saw the girl realized that her relationship with the king had become far more intimate than father and daughter-in-law. Many quietly took offense for the cuckolded crown prince and for Masistes, who had been conveniently kept away from court. I don’t know who told Vashti about the incident, but it could have been anyone who knew of her hard work on the beautiful garment.

  Wings of shadowy forebo
ding brushed my spirit when the news of the king’s affair became public, but days passed and nothing happened. I told myself nothing would come of the king’s foolishness; after all, he had pushed Vashti away and perhaps she had learned her lesson. I even managed to convince myself that Artaynta was a blessing from the gods, for she had been able to dispel the brooding cloud that had engulfed the king since his defeat in Greece.

  And then we commemorated the king’s birthday. The event, one of the most important of the year, was traditionally celebrated with members from the noble families of Persia, and the king’s court was open to any nobleman or noblewoman who wanted to attend. At the feast, any guest could approach the king and ask for a gift, knowing he would be honor-bound to grant the petitioner’s request.

  The day began happily enough. I woke with a smile and went to work on preparations for the feast. Finally the meal was ready, the pavilion decorated, the slaves at their stations.

  The guests began to fill the great hall at Sardis, and then I saw Vashti.

  I stood as if rooted to the floor. Our former queen had apparently been waiting for the birthday feast. She no longer wore a crown, but she would always be a daughter of a noble family, so the king would not send her away.

  She sat with members of her family and said little while other guests went forward to ask for their gifts—a ham, a golden goblet, permission to plant a vineyard on royal property—and then she stood and approached the dais where the king reclined behind a gauze curtain.

  The room stilled as the beautiful former queen moved forward with long, purposeful strides.

  I found it hard to breathe as Vashti’s painted eyes scanned the gathering, then fixed on her husband. “Life, health, and prosperity to you, my king,” she said, her voice throaty and intimate. “I have only one request: to be able to do as I wish with your brother’s wife.”

  In the center of my back, a single drop of sweat traced the ladder of my spine. What was Vashti thinking? My thoughts raced, putting events of the past few weeks together, fitting one to the other, until I formed the picture that must have influenced this bizarre request. Vashti had learned about Artaynta wearing her cloak, and the former queen understood the full significance of symbolic actions. By allowing the girl to wear his cloak, my master had implied that he had given or would share the throne with Artaynta, further implying that he might place her children on the throne, passing over the princes he’d had with Vashti. . . .

  Now Vashti was determined to create a symbol of her own.

  The other servants and I watched, stunned, as a look of sick realization twisted the king’s face. “What is this untoward thing you ask?” he said after a full minute of silence. He lowered his voice. “The lady is innocent of the matter.”

  Standing in a hidden alcove, I closed my eyes. The king might be impulsive, but he was no fool, and his statement revealed that he fully understood Vashti’s motivation. But the woman would not be deterred.

  “You are compelled by the law,” she insisted, coming a half step closer. “It is impossible that anyone who makes a request before the king at a royal feast should not obtain it.”

  The king sat up, rested his elbow on his bent knee, and looked around as if he would find an answer to his dilemma on his couch or dining tray. But all he saw was me.

  He gestured me closer, and I obeyed.

  “Eunuch.” He bent closer, so the lady could not hear our conversation. “Run at once to fetch my brother, and tell him this: ‘Masistes, you are my brother, and in addition you are a man of worth. So I say to you, live no longer with the wife you now live with, but I will give you instead my daughter. Live with her as your wife, but the wife you now have, do not keep, for it does not seem good to me that you should keep her.’”

  I blinked at the unusual message.

  “Hurry!” the king commanded, and away I flew.

  Masistes’s royal apartment was not far from the great hall, and he willingly allowed me into his chamber. Upon hearing the king’s message, however, he frowned. “Will you give the king my reply?”

  I nodded.

  “Tell him that I find his suggestion unprofitable. Why should I send away a wife who has given me sons, who have grown up to be fine young men? And daughters, one of whom you yourself took as a wife for your son. O king, I think it is a very great matter that I am judged worthy of your daughter, but nevertheless, I will neither take your daughter nor give up my wife. Do not force me to do such a thing, and for your daughter another husband will be found who is not at all inferior to me. I pray thee, let me still live with my own wife.”

  I memorized Masistes’s answer and ran back to the great hall.

  I wish I could say that nothing had happened in my absence, but apparently Vashti had used the time to send the king’s spearmen to fetch Parmys. That lady stood between the king on his dais and the former queen on the floor. The innocent woman’s eyes were wide with confusion and fear, and they went wider still when a swordsman stepped forward to do Vashti’s bidding.

  I saw movement in my peripheral vision and turned to see a pale and shaking Artaynta fall to her knees before the king’s couch, begging him through tears not to harm her mother.

  But tradition and the immutable law of the Medes and the Persians had tied his hands.

  The swordsman withdrew his blade as the entire court watched in horrified silence.

  Words fail me. I cannot write the horrible details of what my eyes beheld, but I can testify that the beautiful Vashti took the sword and began to mutilate an innocent woman, choosing to strike at Artaynta through her precious mother.

  When Masistes’s wife had lost her breasts, ears, lips, nose, and tongue, Vashti calmly asked for a carriage to send the wounded woman home.

  Parmys died a few hours later.

  During the mutilation, my master lowered his gaze, unable to watch the carnage. In the furrows of that troubled brow I saw the old darkness approaching and knew nothing good could come of the day’s events.

  Within a few weeks, I was proved right. Masistes attempted to travel to Bactria to stir up a rebellion against the king, but my master had guessed what his younger brother would do. Before the wronged husband, his sons, and his supporters could depart for Bactria, my master arranged to have the entire caravan ambushed and murdered.

  The brooding spirit settled over him again.

  The heavy cloud that descended over my master at his birthday dinner did not dissipate for weeks. He kept to himself, spent hours in his chamber, slept far more than usual, and ate as though he were trying to fill a bottomless gorge. An aura of despair radiated from his pale countenance like some dark moon, and anguish shaped his face into valleys and pouches of flesh that suggested illness or extreme age.

  He did not send for his counselors, his concubines, or for Artaynta—indeed, I did not think he ever wanted to see his daughter-in-law again. I spent more time with him than usual, preparing his meals, freshening his linens, and setting out his clothing. But the king did not speak to me and ’twas not my place to ask him about anything other than his daily plans. I yearned to know what troubled his heart, for then I could better serve him, but the king allowed me no glimpses into his thoughts.

  After a month of this troubling behavior, my master asked me to send for his vice-regents. When they arrived, my master stood, gripped the edges of his robe, and announced that we would travel back to Susa.

  The vice-regents looked at one another, obviously surprised by this sudden development, but the news cheered me. My king was no longer lost in despair. He had suffered humiliation and defeat, but he was still the most powerful man in the world.

  When the vice-regents had gone, the king sat on the edge of his bed and stared at nothing. For a long while he seemed to wear his face like a mask. Then he frowned in a way that made me wonder if he was trying to remember something or struggling to forget.

  “We must move forward,” he said.

  I stepped into his sight line in case he meant the
words for me. “Yes, my king.”

  He did not speak again.

  The next day, the royal household prepared to return to Susa.

  I was surprised by the destination, for Persian kings traditionally moved between cities according to the season—the summer months were best enjoyed in Ecbatana, high on the plateau and encircled by towering mountains. Winter was most tolerable in the warm climate of Babylon, and spring was best enjoyed in Susa, on the edge of the plain. Previous kings had established palaces throughout the empire, and each residence had unique features to recommend it.

  But Darius had spent a great deal of time and effort developing Susa, so perhaps my king wanted to soothe his spirit in a place where he felt his father’s presence. Whatever his reasons, we packed the royal family’s belongings and traveled the Royal Road through Cappadocia, Assyria, and Babylonia.

  Throughout the long journey, I examined my master, searching for some proof that his spirit had been completely restored. But though the king had roused himself from his lethargy, he remained withdrawn. He did not travel on horseback as was his usual habit, but secluded himself inside a royal carriage, where he stared out the windows and conversed only with his thoughts.

  An outside observer might not have noticed anything amiss with my master. As was the custom for Persian monarchs, at every stop along our journey we met with people who brought tribute to the king. Receiving their gifts was the king’s duty, as was his giving them something in return. Each guest shared a meal with us, and for each dinner the cooks slaughtered one thousand animals, including horses, camels, oxen, asses, deer, birds, Arabian ostriches, and geese. Slaves served moderate portions to each member of the king’s household and every guest, but the greater part of the food was carried into the camp for the Immortals who guarded the king.

  Our procession was neither small nor swift. Over two hundred of the king’s relatives attended him on the journey, traveling before and behind and on his right and left. Thirty thousand foot soldiers followed the king’s family, accompanied by four hundred royal horses. Next in line was a golden chariot occupied by Atossa, the king’s mother, and Vashti, mother of the crown prince. A sizable group of handmaids from the queen mother’s household followed on horseback. They were trailed by fifteen carriages filled with the king’s children, their governesses, and a sizable group of eunuchs, without whom the harem could not function.