Esther : Royal Beauty (9781441269294) (4 page)

B
Y
THE
TIME
THE
FIRST
CITIZEN
OF
S
USA
ARRIVED
on the inaugural day of the king's banquet, fresh white cotton curtains canopied the garden, providing shade from the bright winter sun. Beneath the canopies, blue silk banners fluttered from silver rods, tied by purple cords of fine linen. The apadana's towering columns gleamed with a fresh coat of oil, and the marble tile shone beneath our sandals. The intricate mosaic flooring of malachite, marble, onyx, and mother-of-pearl moved more than one guest to stop in his tracks and gape at the heretofore unimagined majesty of the king's palace.

I mopped my damp forehead with a square of spotless linen and tucked it into a pocket of my tunic. We had worked through the night to make certain everything would be ready for the residents of Susa, and by some miracle we had finished our cleaning, baking, polishing, steaming, and roasting. If any element was missing—in
truth, I clung to the hope that the king's guests could not miss what they had never seen.

Never before in the history of the Medes and the Persians—perhaps in the history of the world—had a king thrown open the doors of his palace and invited everyone outside his walls to partake of his hospitality. As slaves escorted the male citizens of Susa, both lowly and great, to dining couches in the garden, female servants led the guests' wives and daughters to similar accommodations in the queen's palace. Knowing that women were fascinated by the living quarters of other women, I had suggested the king ask Queen Vashti to give the women a tour of her rooms after the feast. She had balked—no surprise there—but when I reminded her that Hatakh, the queen's chamberlain, would handle all the details, she relented.

Still, the queen was not happy about the king's grand gesture. She had given birth to my master's third son only a few months before, and though she did not have to tend or nurse the infant, she often cited the birth as an excuse for not appearing at various royal functions. On this occasion, however, the king had insisted that she play her part.

I was standing near the western staircase and observing the guests' arrival when I spotted Mordecai with his wife and charming ward. The accountant wore his usual austere tunic, adorned only with a light fringe at the bottom, but both women wore beautiful gowns. The girl's, I noticed, had been cut in the latest fashion, close fitting through the body with long, flaring sleeves. Both Mordecai's wife and ward wore silk scarves over their hair, a modest and traditional accessory.

I lifted my hand and caught the accountant's gaze. “I am happy to see you, my friend. Welcome to the king's house.”

Mordecai and his wife responded with the perfunctory nod I received from most people, but the girl fairly glowed at my words.
And since I had a soft spot for that delightful creature, I acted on an impulse.

“Ladies—” I bowed to them—“may I escort you to the queen's garden? She is waiting to delight and entertain you.”

Mordecai's wife frowned, obviously uncomfortable with the situation, but the girl's lips parted in a gasp of eagerness. Yes, this one yearned for a taste of the life she would never find among her fellow Judeans. If the others in the Jewish district were as hardworking, sober, and taciturn as Mordecai, I doubted they ever indulged in the sort of feasting they would enjoy at the queen's banquet.

Mordecai's hand caught his wife's wrist before I could lead the women away. “Be wary.” He kept his voice low. “I will attempt to leave as soon as I can make a discreet exit. We need not stay late every night.”

The girl's face crumpled with disappointment. “Cousin, this is a celebration!”

“What have we to celebrate here?” Mordecai's mouth took on an unpleasant twist. “We will enjoy the king's hospitality for a while and then we will go. We need not remain here all night.”

As the young woman's lower lip edged forward in a pout, I lifted my hand to smother a smile. The Persians had made sure I would never father a child, but I had grown up serving royal children, so I recognized youthful displeasure when I saw it.

My friend Mordecai was likely to have an unhappy walk home.

F
OR
SEVEN
DAYS
THE
CITIZENS
OF
S
USA
feasted and drank at the king's table. Food streamed from the kitchen on hundreds of platters, while wine flowed like water from golden vessels. The king observed everything from the shelter of his private tent, the queen tolerated her role as hostess, and the king's nephew Mushka played the fool, entertaining the male guests with ribald jokes and crude imitations of oblivious wealthy merchants and Persian nobles who passed by his table.

When the sixth day of feasting had ended, I stood at the balcony and looked over the streets of Susa, watching the unfortunate results of the king's liberality. Only a few guests made it home that first night without mishap, for nearly every man who'd indulged in the king's wine either stumbled or vomited or made a fool of himself on the journey. The people managed the king's generosity better on the second and third nights, and guests left the palace on
the fourth and fifth nights in relative sobriety. But the collective self-control slipped on the sixth night, as if every man feared he'd never be offered a cup of wine again.

I dreaded the seventh and final night.

Everyone seemed to understand that my master's generosity would be a once-in-a-lifetime occasion. Never again would events align in the same pattern; never again would the king's wine flow without restriction.

I saw resolution in the determined faces of the early arrivals—they had come to gorge themselves. Men greeted me with hungry eyes, many of them admitting they had not yet broken their fast in order to leave room in their bellies for the king's delicacies. The women wore brighter colors and more numerous jewels than on previous days, and many of them twittered with anticipation, eagerly awaiting whatever entertainment the queen had arranged for this last day of the royal feast.

Mordecai's family proved to be an exception. They arrived later than most of the guests, and as they reached the top of the western staircase Mordecai caught my sleeve. “I am glad to see you, Harbonah,” he said, motioning toward an alcove where we could talk privately. “And as much as I would hate to insult the king's hospitality, my family and I must depart before sunset. If you could seat me toward the back of the garden so that I can slip out unobserved . . .”

That's when I realized that Mordecai was maintaining a secret.

“Tell me.” A smile curved my lips. “Do your overseers at the King's Gate know you are a Jew?”

He might have been surprised that a eunuch could be so perceptive, but Mordecai was nearly as skilled as I at concealing his emotions. His brow flickered; then he tipped his head back and looked at me. “Does my being a Jew affect my work?”

I shrugged. “I have never heard anything but good reports about your service for the king.”

“Does my being a Jew matter to you?”

“No more than my being a eunuch seems to matter to you.”

A muscle quivered at Mordecai's jaw, and he shook his head. “I am sorry for the injustice that has brought you to this place. But I will always see you as a friend.”

“As I see you, truly. And as the king sees you. My master knows his empire is composed of many tribes and kingdoms. He is tolerant and expects others to be tolerant, as well.”

Mordecai nodded slowly. “And yet . . . people fear those who are not like themselves. And fear spawns persecution. We saw it in Judea; we saw it in Babylon.” He seemed preoccupied for a moment, as if troubling memories had suddenly overshadowed his awareness of our conversation. Finally, he looked up. “For reasons you may not understand, I am not at peace about announcing my heritage in this place. I will not deny it, but neither will I announce it.”

“Yet you have no reason to fear.” Aware that we might be overheard, I glanced quickly left and right, then pulled Mordecai deeper into the alcove. “The great Cyrus liberated your people! He gave them permission to return to Judea and even restored the sacred objects that had been stolen by the Babylonians—”

“Of course,” Mordecai interrupted, his voice smooth. “He did so because Adonai compelled him to act on our behalf. But this king—”

“Has my master not been good to you?”

Mordecai tilted his head and weighed me with a critical squint. “I can see that you admire him. I do too in some respects. I am pleased to work in his treasury. But do you not recall the occasion when he received a letter from the enemies of Israel? He did not respond favorably to my people that day. Indeed, he condemned them.”

I stammered, searching my memory until the recollection emerged. Not long after my master ascended to the throne, a group of Judean Samaritans had attempted to terrorize the returning
Jews and stop their efforts to rebuild the city walls. They wrote my master, charging the Judeans with rebuilding a “rebellious and wicked city.” They warned that the Jews, if successful in finishing the city walls, would refuse to pay tribute or taxes, thus reducing the royal revenue. They had ended their letter with a stern warning: “If this city is rebuilt and the walls are finished, you will soon lose possession of all territories beyond the river.”

Though previous Persian kings had supported the Jews in Judea, my master determined to research the matter for himself. He had the letter translated from the Aramaic and searched the royal archives for confirmation of the Samaritans' story. After finding proof that Jerusalem had indeed been a rebellious city ruled by powerful kings, he sent the plaintiffs a terse reply: “So now, order that these men stop work and that this city not be rebuilt until I order it. Take care not to neglect your duty; otherwise the harm may increase, to the damage of the king.”

The king discussed the correspondence with his vice-regents, and I had been privy to the conversation.

Reluctantly, I met Mordecai's eye. “My master did not condemn the Jews. He merely stopped the work.”

“But he didn't support them, as had his father and Cyrus before him. So my fellow Jews and I have decided to quietly remain in Susa. When the ground beneath a man's feet is uncertain, he does well to tread lightly.”

I gazed at the accountant, surprised and intrigued by his reasoning. I had known Mordecai only as an accountant who kept records, recorded tributes, sealed and sent correspondence. Our encounters had convinced me he was intelligent and diligent, yet I had never really seen the man behind the desk.

What I saw that night, however, met with my approval.

I bent my head in genuine respect. “I see no need to ever identify you as anyone other than Mordecai, an excellent accountant in
the king's service. Persia is an amalgamation of many peoples and many customs. My master has always exulted in the great variety of his empire.”

Mordecai nodded, then clapped me on the shoulder, a surprising gesture from one usually so reserved. “Thank you. And if you will seat me in the shadows, I will be able to collect my family before sunset. We do not travel on the seventh day.”

I blinked, not understanding, but his request could be accomplished easily enough. “I will not only seat you in the shadows,” I said, walking him back to where the women waited, “but I will do the same for your women.”

Mordecai and his wife smiled in approval, but when I glanced at the girl I saw disappointment in her eyes.

During the seventh feast I went through the motions of service and dreamed of again enjoying a normal life in the palace. Though one could argue that no life in the palace was “normal,” how luxurious it would be to wake without worrying about the thousands of guests expected for dinner. How marvelous to rub my hand over a throat not swollen from shouting orders to foolish slaves who didn't know silk from linen.

Time crawled on its hands and knees during that final banquet, the hours stretching themselves thin as the wine flowed freely and the crowd grew more raucous. I picked up a golden vessel of sweet wine and carried it through the garden, refilling rhytons while the musicians played and the concubines twirled among the trees. Most of the men had finished with the main courses, stuffing themselves with venison, horse, beef, and pork. Others were still eating, enjoying the sweet baked apples wrapped in pastry, a delicacy the cooks had worked all afternoon to prepare. Throughout the banquet,
the guests' golden goblets—no two of which were alike—rose frequently, along with shouts of praise to the king.

I expected the king to be sober and satisfied, perhaps even weary, but as I approached the curtained dais I saw he was in rare high spirits. Apparently delighted to realize that the work of celebrating his army and his citizenry was nearly done, he appeared flushed from inebriation and contentment. He reclined on his gold couch, surrounded by his vice-regents—the nobles Carshena, Shethar, Admatha, Tarshish, Meres, Marsena, and Memucan. These advisors had also been feasting for six months and one week, yet none of them seemed as drunk as my master. Perhaps they had learned the importance of keeping their wits about them while dining with the king.

I shifted the flagon to my pouring hand and approached the royal party. Catching my gaze, the king lifted his rhyton, then glanced at Memucan, the eldest and most trusted member of the inner circle. “I have heard,” the king drawled, “that you have taken a new wife.”

Memucan nodded. “Yes, my king, I have. A lovely girl from Assyria. She's one—” he hiccupped—“of the most beautiful women I have ever seen.”

The king's eyes narrowed. “Were the women of Persia not good enough for you?”

Memucan flushed, undoubtedly realizing what he had implied. For the vice-regent to insinuate that his wife was more beautiful than any Persian woman was to imply that his woman was more beautiful than even the queen—

A muscle in Memucan's jaw flexed, and he shook his head so forcefully I feared he would hurt himself. “Forgive me, my king, I meant nothing by my thoughtless remark. Of course my wife is not the most beautiful woman in Persia or even in the palace. She is the most beautiful I have ever seen because I, being a common man, have not had an opportunity to closely observe the queen
or the royal daughters or any of the lovely concubines who grace your presence. Not that I require such an occasion. I am content with my own wife.”

“You've never been near the queen?” My master sat up and looked around the circle of counselors. “Have any of you ever been close enough to speak to my wife?”

I stepped back, flagon in hand, and watched as the counselors stared at each other, all seven of them dumbstruck. Vashti had given birth to the king's third son only a few months before, so she had been absent from court for some time. But while all of them had
seen
Vashti before her pregnancy, few would have had occasion to speak with her. No man, however, wanted to report a private conversation, for who could know what a drunken king was thinking?

They waited, each man terrified, until the king looked directly at Carshena, the youngest. “Surely you have been close enough to appreciate the queen's beauty.”

“I have, my king, but only for an instant. Yet I did not see her, because I fell prostrate as she passed by.” The young man bowed his head, then lifted his gaze. “Still, I am certain that a lovelier woman is not to be found in all the empire.”

The king grunted, then allowed his gaze to drift over the hundreds of male guests lolling on the couches in the apadana and the garden beyond. “
They
haven't seen Vashti,” he murmured. “They live in this city, they have eaten my food for a week, yet they do not appreciate the greatest treasure I possess. They have no idea that my consort is the fairest woman in all creation.”

I took another step back and would have retreated, but the solidity of a marble column blocked my way. An ill wind had begun to blow through the king's mind; I recognized the signs. My master was brilliant, charming, and gracious when he chose to be, but a darkness often descended upon him, a bleak mood brought on by an excess of wine and always accompanied by thoughts of women.
I noticed his lowered brow, recognized the smirk twisting his upper lip, and sensed the disaster about to befall us.

“Biztha,” the king roared, setting his rhyton down with such force that red wine spilled on the tray. “You and your fellows go to the queen's palace and fetch Vashti to me. She should come at once, wearing the royal crown, so she will look like the queen of the king who rules the world.”

Biztha, one of the eunuchs who guarded the king inside the palace, stepped forward, but he went pale at the king's order. I trembled for him—Vashti was a proud woman, and she had been asked to host a banquet and conduct a tour for the women of Susa. She had reluctantly agreed, but this would undoubtedly be too much. She had frustrated the king before, and unless she was in an uncommonly agreeable mood, she would frustrate him again tonight.