Behind the royal children rode nearly four hundred of the king’s concubines, all of them regally dressed. They were followed by a corps of archers who guarded the six hundred mules and three hundred camels necessary to carry the king’s money. A detachment of friends of the king followed the treasury, and scores of canteen servants followed the king’s friends. A company of foot soldiers and their officers brought up the rear.
Our party might have been large, but it was not inefficient. Of the concubines, 329 played musical instruments and were often pressed into service during dinner. Many of the eunuchs were tasked with weaving floral chaplets, while 277 were caterers, 29 kettle tenders, 13 pudding makers, 17 bartenders, 70 wine clarifiers, and 40 perfume makers.
Each day the front-runners halted when the sun began to tilt toward the horizon. Slaves first erected the king’s white tent so that the luxurious dwelling would be completely set up by the time the king arrived. My master and I immediately went inside, along with the king’s bodyguards, the vice-regents, and several scribes. While the rest of the servants assembled their tents or prepared the evening meal, the king accepted tribute and gifts from subjects who lived in the vicinity.
And while the king met his subjects, rode with his Immortals, and sat with his vice-regents, I observed him as studiously as possible.
Why? Because my duty required me to anticipate and meet his needs before he realized he lacked anything. And because I had grown attached to the man and wanted him to succeed.
I also watched my master closely because I had grown concerned for his son, the crown prince. Young Darius spent very little time with his father, and I worried that his mother had poisoned him against the king. Patricide was not unknown in the history of Persian royalty, and if one day the young man’s mind bent toward treason, he would only have to gather supporters and seize his father’s throne.
Already I had heard rumblings from discontents. Not only did they complain about the expense of a war without victory, some said the king had committed a grievous wrong against his son by giving him a bride and then using the girl for his own pleasure. No one in the royal household could forget the horrible mutilation of Artaynta’s innocent mother, and many felt Vashti would be justified in turning the son against his father.
So I worried.
If I could have carved out a time when father and son could ride together in a chariot, I would have arranged it. If I could have given the king and the prince an opportunity for a private dinner, I would have cooked the meal myself. If I could have convinced the king to go to his son and apologize for his misdeeds, I would have risked the attempt because my king’s own life depended on the outcome.
I did not fault him for losing the war against Greece. But he had been a fool to engage in an affair that led to disastrous consequences.
Still . . . one could not change the past. Furthermore, the king’s word, once given, could not be altered or denied. Such was the inflexible law of the Medes and the Persians.
And such was the king I served.
Chapter Fourteen
Hadassah
REALIZING THAT THE PATH OF MY LIFE had been irrevocably fixed, I grew resigned to marrying Binyamin. I told myself I would grow fond of him in time, and fondness would surely turn to love. Miriam assured me that I would love whomever I chose to make precious to me, and that through caring for Binyamin, he would become more precious than life itself.
After saying these words, she glanced over at the fire, where Mordecai sat squinting at a scroll. Though Miriam could no longer be called beautiful, at that moment her cheeks flushed and a sparkle lit her eyes. Comeliness returned to her face, and I realized that love had brought it back.
“May it be so,” I murmured, thinking of Binyamin. May my eyes shine when I am old and worn out. . . .
The days of waiting melted into weeks, and weeks into months as spring flowered into summer. Mordecai kept busy with his work, while Miriam continued to take care of the house, though she began to leave more of her responsibilities to me. At first I chafed at the extra work, and then I realized she was trying to prepare me for the life that would soon be mine.
I was standing at the well, holding an empty jug on my hip, when Devorah, a woman from our neighborhood, came huffing up the hill, her face flushed and perspiring. “Hadassah! You are needed at home.” She narrowed her eyes as if I had lingered by the well to escape my chores. “Miriam is ill.”
I should have dropped my jug and run home, but the woman’s chiding tone irritated me. “What’s wrong?” I asked, imagining that Miriam had twisted her ankle again. “I haven’t drawn the water yet.”
“Leave your jar.” Devorah’s gaze met mine, and her burning eyes held me still. “And pray that you make it home before your cousin departs this life.”
I stared. Surely the woman wasn’t serious. Miriam had been fine when I saw her last; she sent me to the well and asked me to stop by the bazaar to see if any figs were available. Miriam was never ill—clumsy, yes, especially lately, but she had never taken to her bed, not for a single day. . . .
I left my jar and sprinted home, my tunic flapping around my ankles and kicking up dust. I burst through the courtyard gate and entered the house, narrowly avoiding a chicken that had stopped to scratch the earthen floor. “Miriam!”
“Over here, Hadassah.”
The voice wasn’t Miriam’s. I spotted my cousin in a dark corner, lying on her straw-filled mattress. Mikhal, another neighbor, bent over her, holding an oil lamp aloft as she examined Miriam’s lined face.
I sank to a low stool, reeling with confusion. Half of Miriam’s face was composed in gentle lines, as if she were resting, but the other half had been pulled downward by some invisible hand. I had seen unbaked clay figurines droop in the same way when sprinkled with water, but I had never expected to see such an expression on Miriam’s face.
I tugged on Mikhal’s sleeve. “What’s wrong?”
Mikhal shook her head, then used a soft cloth to wipe a string of spittle from Miriam’s mouth. “She was fine,” Mikhal said, the sound of tears in her voice. “She was in the courtyard, talking to me over the wall, and suddenly she said something foolish. I laughed and asked what she meant, and she simply looked at me, her eyes confused. I reached for her, but she fell. By the time I ran around the wall, she was—” Mikhal pointed to Miriam’s distorted face—“like this. I have sent for a physician, but I don’t know if he will be able to help.”
“And Mordecai?” I glanced toward the doorway, hoping my cousin had somehow intuited this tragedy and come rushing home. “Did you send word to the King’s Gate?”
A frown filled the space between Mikhal’s brows. “I had no one to send. I sent Devorah to get you, and Rachel to get the doctor. Who could I send to the King’s Gate?”
I covered my mouth, horrified by the sight of Miriam’s mangled countenance. What was I supposed to do?
“Your place is here.” As if to emphasize her point, Mikhal placed the damp cloth in my palm, then guided my hand toward my cousin’s cheek. “You should care for her now. She has done so much for you.”
I knew she was right. I stood on trembling legs and approached the bed, then knelt by Miriam’s side. I tentatively brushed the corner of her mouth and looked into the one open eye.
And gasped.
The black pupil, usually so perfectly round in its band of brown, had spattered within its orb. It stared at me, open and unmoving. I didn’t need a physician to tell me Miriam was dead.
Something erupted from within me. I tried to clamp my mouth shut to stifle a cry, but I began to sob in a high, helpless hacking sound. I threw my arms around Miriam and hugged her as if I could hold her spirit in its place.
While I wept, Mikhal squeezed my shoulder.
“She is gone,” the woman said, releasing a heavy sigh. “The grave has taken her. See? No breathing, not anymore. We will have to wash and wrap her for burial. Pull yourself together, Hadassah. First we work, then we mourn.”
I sat up, hot spurts of loss and love rolling down my face. I never knew my father, and I was a baby when my mother died. I had known loss, but I never felt real grief until that moment.
I stood, trying to control myself, but my lip wobbled and my eyes leaked in spite of my intentions. I wanted to prove to Mikhal and Devorah that I was capable of handling whatever life might throw at me, but I couldn’t handle this.
I wiped my face on my veil and took a long, slow breath.
Death had come to our home like an unwelcome guest. Just this morning Miriam had been living, breathing, and working, yet a few hours later she lay still and damaged. And we would have to bury her quickly, so we would need more women to prepare the body.
And someone had to tell Mordecai. I lifted my head and glanced around. Devorah had taken a bowl and gone outside, presumably in search of water, and Mikhal was cutting the tunic from Miriam’s body. I would help them, I would, but I had to do something first.
Forgetting everything else, I spun away from Mikhal and Devorah and ran toward the royal fortress.
Mordecai briefly entered the house to view his beloved Miriam, then retired to the courtyard with the rabbi, as was proper for any man who did not wish to be ceremonially defiled. I joined the women who had washed my cousin’s body, dressed her in a simple garment, and laid her out on the table. Now they were sprinkling her remains with spices to disguise the smell of death. Because the day was neither a holy day nor the Sabbath, we would bury her before sunset.
I sat on a stool at my cousin’s feet, marveling at their yellowed color even as I struggled to breathe. The air in the house seemed thick with the heaviness of grief.
“The Persians do not understand why we take such pains with the body,” Mikhal said, lowering her voice as if she feared someone might overhear. “But I have seen what they do when someone dies. After cutting themselves and weeping, they carry their dead out to the fields and leave them to the vultures. Later, they go back and bury the bones.” She shuddered. “I cannot believe they think their practice respectful.”
“They do not know any better,” Devorah said, speaking in the same low tones. She unrolled a strip of cloth beneath Miriam’s jaw and tied it at the top of my cousin’s head, effectively closing the mouth. “In this land where a man may worship whatever god he chooses, nothing is holy. No one respects the laws of any god.”
“But we know better.” Mikhal placed a clean square of woven cloth over Miriam’s face, then looked directly at me. “Aye, Hadassah?”
Her question jolted me back to reality. My thoughts had wandered as I imagined Parysatis caring for the body of her dead mother. Would she really carry the remains out into the fields? Would she and Babar dump their beloved mother on the ground like garbage?
“The mourners have arrived.” Another neighbor, a woman I had often seen with Miriam, entered the house, dragging a wooden bier behind her. “And so has this. Mordecai rented it from the carpenter.”
Mikhal tilted her head and regarded the bier with suspicion. “Altogether plain, isn’t it?”
“Mordecai knows best.” The woman left the bier on the floor and regarded our handiwork. “As one who moves so freely among the people of Susa, perhaps Mordecai doesn’t want to emphasize the differences in our customs.”
The women sighed, then drew closer to the table where Miriam lay on a length of fine linen. Accompanied by the cries and ululations of the mourners outside, the women lifted the remaining length of cloth and pulled it over Miriam’s frame, tucking the edges beneath the body. When they had finished, they looked at me. “Have you anything to add, Hadassah?”
I drew a breath, but couldn’t speak over the lump in my throat.
“That’s all right.” Mikhal gave me the first smile I’d received since learning the awful news. “Death comes as a shock to one so young, but now you are the woman of the house. How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” I managed to whisper.
“More than ready for a husband, then, so prepare yourself. With Miriam gone, you need to move to your own home with your own husband. This is the way of all living things.”
I bowed my head as the hard hand of guilt smacked me. Mordecai had been so patient with me. He had stalled my impatient husband-to-be and diplomatically convinced Binyamin’s father that I needed more time with my family. But with half my family gone, how could he continue to delay the inevitable?
I stood, knowing that I was not only about to bury the only mother I had ever known, but a life of uncommon freedom and opportunity. Binyamin would soon come to make me his wife, and I had no more excuses.
Chapter Fifteen
Harbonah
I DON’T KNOW WHAT THE KING EXPECTED TO FIND on our arrival at Susa—memories of a happier time, perhaps? But as the royal household settled into one of the grandest palaces in all creation, my master’s spirits did not improve. He maintained the appearance of normality—hunting, riding, watching athletic contests on the training field—but I felt as though his heart had left us. After sunset, when most of the royal household settled down to sleep, he would rise and wander in the royal gardens, his head down and his hands locked behind his back.
After about a week, I had an epiphany: my master had roused himself enough to make the journey back to Susa, but apparently he had not found what he sought in this gilded palace. Susa held no memories of war or Artaynta, so the influence here could not be negative. What pleasant memories had he expected to find?
I could come up with only one answer: the companionship of a loving wife. He and Vashti had been happy here, rejoicing in their close relationship and the birth of three sons. The former queen might be prideful, scheming, and cruel, but she had been a friend to my master. They had conversed as equals, and though she shared his body with hundreds of concubines, Vashti never had to share his heart. No one—not even Artaynta—had met the king as an equal in nobility, courage, and cunning.
So . . . the king needed another companion. Someone with Vashti’s virtues but none of her vices. Someone who could approach the king on equal footing, but who would not wield royal authority with malice.
Though I knew how my master might heal his heartache, what right had I to make a suggestion? I was a slave, a blank wall, a pair of hands and feet. My duty was to be silent and respectful, helpful but not obvious. But still . . .
I knew my master could be made whole again. He only needed a push in the right direction. But if I were to supply the push, I needed the perfect opportunity, an occasion in which my master would be willing to see and hear me.
One afternoon my listless king lifted his head and addressed the air, ignoring the dozen or so servants in the room. “I cannot find happiness here,” he said simply. “And I can’t help thinking of the day I banished Vashti from my presence. Though I can’t forget the awful things she has done, perhaps she is not entirely to blame. I am not free of guilt regarding her actions, and I regret—”
I stepped forward before the king could finish his confession. “My lord the king, a thousand pardons for my impertinence.” I lowered my forehead to the floor and waited for his response.
In the stretching silence I heard the breathless shock of the other servants. They had stopped moving, and I could feel the pressure of their eyes on the back of my skull.
“Rise, eunuch,” the king said, his voice free of rancor. “You have something to tell me?”
I closed my eyes and exhaled in relief, then pushed myself to an upright position. “Thank you, my good master. I have watched your struggles, and you should not suffer one day more. You know the solution, my king, the answer that will not force you to violate the unbreakable law of the Medes and the Persians.”
The empty air between us vibrated, the silence filling with tension.
My king turned his head into the hard light of the sun, and I saw that all traces of youth had fled from his face. “I know the answer?”
“You do.” I flushed beneath his intense scrutiny. “You ne
ed a queen worthy of you. Let a search be made for young, beautiful women. The king should appoint officials in all the provinces of the empire to gather all the attractive women to the house for the harem, in Susa the capital. They should be put under the care of Hegai, the king’s officer in charge of the harem, and he should give them the cosmetics or whatever they require. Then the girl who seems best to the king should become queen instead of Vashti.”
The king’s eyes narrowed, and for an instant I feared I would not be forgiven for speaking. My idea was unconventional, maybe even crazy, but something had to be done.
But an empire-wide search? The vice-regents would despise the idea, because it would deprive their daughters of an opportunity to marry a king. For generations, Persian rulers had chosen wives from the daughters of one of seven noble families—after a bloody revolt, the resolution had been established by the nobles themselves. Requiring that the king choose a wife from among their households served to establish the legitimacy of the kingship—and guaranteed that they would remain close to the seat of power.
But my master had already met that requirement, for Vashti had been the daughter of Otanes, one of the leading Persian nobles. So why shouldn’t my king search for a new wife from among the commoners of his empire? This one would not be so prideful that she would disdain and disobey her husband and king.
The king inclined his head, a slow smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “Let it be so,” he said, his voice resonating with a vigor I had not heard in months. “Let the edict be published, and let the search begin.”
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