Harvest of Gold (38 page)

Without another word, Nehemiah began to walk away.

Darius felt rooted to the spot. His head had begun to pound and nausea roiled in his innards. Nehemiah had managed to summon the specter of a past he thought he had buried long ago.

Did he really have a wall around his heart that went as high as the moon? Nehemiah made him sound so cold and distant. Was he like that with Sarah?

He thought of the babe that would be born to him in a matter of months.
Would
he send him to the palace if he was a boy? Send him to be bullied and isolated, stripped of childish affection? Was the empire worth such a sacrifice?

The memories he had ignored for long years refused to be silenced anymore. They came upon him with such force that he stumbled, almost pitching into the gaping foundation. Like a man who had drunk too much wine, he took an unsteady step until his toe connected with a large piece of masonry. Shivering, he allowed his body to sink down until he half sat, half collapsed on the pale rock. He rested his head in his hands, taking deep breaths to steady his senses. The memories would not abate. They crashed over him with the fury of a gale, bringing with them the feelings he had forgotten.

THE FIRST YEAR OF KING ARTAXERXES’ REIGN
^*
PERSIA
(TWENTY YEARS EARLIER)

Long before his nurse came to fetch him, Darius sat up on his wide, gilt bed, heart thumping with excitement. It was his seventh birthday. He knew birthdays meant a full week of celebrations: presents; games; late nights with friends and family; an endless array of cakes and sweets. Even grown up Persians celebrated their birthdays with more festivities than the rest of the world could understand; but for him this was a magical time. A boy’s seventh birthday marked an important rite of passage. After the birthday celebrations concluded, he would no longer have need of a nursemaid. Instead, leaving behind childhood, he would be introduced to the world of men. He would begin to learn a man’s skills and acquire knowledge vital for an aristocrat.

Darius had already become an accomplished rider though he could not remember ever learning to ride. His father had told him that he had sat Darius astride a horse before he could walk. But now he would also be taught to use a bow and arrow as well as swords, daggers, spears, javelins, and would learn the enthralling secrets of the art of combat. He would study medicines and the mysteries of the forest and would train to survive in a desert. He would have to learn some boring things as well, like reading and writing, which his mother insisted upon, and the lengthy lessons of the magi about truth and justice. He thought he could put up with such annoyances so long as he could swap his dreaded nursemaid for sword-fighting and playing games all day long with other boys his age.

Too impatient to wait any longer, Darius slipped out of his warm bed and dressed himself quickly, donning his clothes from the day before. The garments were rumpled and carried the stains of a full day of fierce outdoor activity, which made them all the more comfortable in Darius’s view. They sat askew on his solid form, thanks to the speed with which he put them on. His nurse would have been horrified by the results. Darius was more interested in starting the day than in her opinion.

He ran out of his spacious chamber, down a long corridor, and slipped into his mother’s apartment. Her bedroom was still covered in darkness, an inconvenience he overcame by the simple expedience of pulling aside blue linen curtains.

Weak early sunlight found its sluggish way into the apartment, bringing to life the colorful mosaics that decorated the walls. Exotic birds seemed to take flight in a purple sky. Darius touched the royal blue and green image of a peacock and smiled. He loved this room. Turning, he saw that his mother slept on.

Tiptoeing with silent steps, he went toward his mother’s sleeping form, intent on tickling her awake. He had barely reached her side when long graceful hands captured him and dragged him into bed. He squealed, startled.

“I’ve been awake all along, my darling monster.” His mother’s manicured fingers thwarted his plans by tickling him instead.

Darius laughed until his belly ached. “Stop!”

She obeyed his plea immediately.

“Do you know why today is special?” he asked, a serious note creeping into his voice.

“Today? No. Why? I know! It’s father’s birthday.”

“No, it’s not,” Darius said, indignant. “It’s mine!”

“You don’t say? Come to think of it, you look more grown up. But how terrible! I forgot all about it. What shall I give you for your birthday present?” His mother gazed at him through thick curling lashes. “How about this robe?” She held out her morning wrap—a sheer confection made of pleated white silk with golden embroidery.

Darius made a horrified face.

“Oh well, I suppose not. What about my comb? You must admit it’s pretty.” She offered him the long-toothed comb that sat on a table next to her lavish bed. Carved from ivory and encrusted in some kind of red jewel whose name Darius didn’t know, it sparkled with feminine glitter.

He gave his mother an offended look and began to believe that she was not teasing him, after all. A terrible dread settled in the pit of his belly; had his mother truly forgotten his birthday?

She laughed. “What a face. I can see you don’t like my comb, either. Perhaps you might find something more to your liking in my silver chest.”

Darius’s face lit up with renewed hope. He scrambled off the bed and ran to the chest. The lid, a carved affair inlaid with jewels and heavy obsidian, proved hefty. He pushed it up, using all his strength, his young muscles straining under the pressure, until it came to rest upright.

“Well done, little man. You are going to be very strong when you grow up.” His mother had wrapped herself in her white morning robe and come to stand next to him. Her hair reached below her waist in a profusion of dark curls; Darius had heard more than one woman in his father’s household sigh with envy over its beauty. At this moment, however, it presented a mere annoyance to him. He pushed the curls out of his way and focused on his task.

“I’m already strong,” he said while making a visual search of the silver chest. Shoved to one corner, he found a long package wrapped in a length of yellow fabric.

Snatching it up with enthusiasm, he turned to his mother. “Is this mine?”

“It might be.”

He grinned as he laid his bundle on top of the bed. Impatient fingers shoved the fabric wrapping aside. Darius gasped. A perfect bow with a leather quiver full of arrows appeared for his inspection. The limb of the bow was made of curved wood, its string fashioned out of sinew. He touched it with reverence and felt a thin layer of wax. Even as a boy he knew this was to protect the bow from moisture. He pulled out an arrow from the black-colored quiver and examined the bone tip with minute attention. It looked sharp and hard—not a child’s toy, but an adult’s hunting tool.

He tested the string with a tentative touch. It felt impossibly tight. For a moment his confidence wavered; perhaps he would not be strong enough to use it. With determined effort he pushed the doubt aside. No bow was going to defeat
him
. He resolved to beat all his friends with his perfect aim.

“Well,” his mother’s voice interrupted his musings. “Does the present meet with your approval, my lord?”

Instead of answering, Darius flung his arms around his mother’s waist with fierce enthusiasm. It occurred to him, in a faint jumble of disorganized thought, that turning seven would somehow mean not living in the women’s quarter of his father’s house anymore. And that meant not having easy access to his mother anytime he wished.

The thought pierced him with the sharpness of one of his newly acquired arrows. Then he remembered the endless games he would play with his companions and forgot the fear of being apart from his mother.

“Rachel, shall we go and fetch—” said a deep voice from the door before breaking off into a deep, rumbling laugh. “I should have known the little rascal would be out of bed. Normally six trumpets and a rabid dog couldn’t drag him awake this early in the day.”

“Father!” Darius exclaimed with delight. “Look at what Mother gave me for my birthday.” Fetching his bow and arrows, he brought them to Lord Vivan for his inspection.

His father examined first the bow, then the arrows with an experienced eye. “Straight shaft, sharp edge, tight string. An admirable weapon. I know my son shall prove worthy of it.”

Darius felt his chest expand until he thought he would burst with joy. His father’s approval always had that effect on him. “I will, Father.”

Lord Vivan placed a hand on Darius’s shoulder. “I suppose now
I
should present you with a gift.”

Darius bit back a smile. “It is customary. I am seven today, you know.”

“You amaze me. Truly? You are seven? Rachel, did you know this?”

“It comes as something of a surprise to me as well, my lord husband. Feels like only yesterday that he came into the world.”

Lord Vivan approached his wife and took her into his arms. “How time flies with you, love.”

Darius rolled his eyes. “It’s
my
birthday, not hers.”

“Did you want a cuddle too?” Vivan asked, and, without waiting for an answer, grabbed Darius into his wide embrace and threw him high in the sky. Before his son descended perilously close to the ground, he caught him up in his arms again and turned him upside down, holding him by the ankles. Darius, half blinded with the hair that streamed into his eyes, felt offended by a game that had always thrilled him before today.

“Put me down, please!” he demanded. “I’m not a baby anymore.”

“I beg your pardon. Right you are.” His father set him back on the floor, his blue eyes staring down at him with a serious expression.

Darius straightened his clothes and tried to recapture his injured dignity. “I used to like that. But now, I think I would prefer to play other games with you, Father. Perhaps you can take me hunting instead.”

His father bit his lip. Darius scowled, trying to discern if Lord Vivan was laughing at him. But his father nodded, and reaching into his pocket, drew out an ornate box. “Perhaps this will help with our new game. Happy birthday, my son.”

Darius forgot his injured pride and grasped the box. Made of light olive wood, the box had been carved into a long rectangle. Inside, he found a dagger, crafted from bronze, with a hilt slim enough to fit into a boy’s hand. The dagger boasted no ornamentation. It was a young man’s weapon, not a showpiece.

Darius beamed, delighted. He clasped the box with the dagger, and his bow and quiver of arrows to his chest. The new treasure trove barely fit in his arms. “I love my dagger. Thank you, Father. Let’s go try everything out.”

“I suggest we have breakfast first,” Lord Vivan said. “Breaking in fresh weapons is hungry work.”

Darius curbed his impatience as he ate with his parents. After all, eating breakfast with his father presented a rare opportunity. As customary with aristocratic Persian men, Lord Vivan had a large household. With two other wives besides Darius’s mother, three concubines, two half-brothers, two half-sisters, and a baby on the way, Lord Vivan’s domestic time remained limited. Darius’s mother was his favorite by far, and the one woman he truly loved. Yet for the sake of family harmony he could not spend too much time with Lady Rachel and Darius. So rather than complain about the delay in learning how to handle his new weapons, Darius decided to enjoy this precious visit.

The breakfast spread boasted a variety of hot breads and soft cheeses. There were fig preserves and—his mother’s favorite—bergamot jelly, as well as fresh eggs with yolks the color of the setting sun. Darius rolled a large piece of warm bread with thick sweet cream, topped it with grape jelly, and stuffed a huge bite into his mouth, noticing that his father was engaged in the same activity at exactly the same time.

His mother laughed. “Look at the two of you. No mistaking you are father and son. Except that you are fair-haired and blue-eyed, Vivan, and Darius has my dark coloring and green eyes, you are practically identical. Same straight nose, same long mouth, same grooves in your cheeks as you smile. And the same sweet tooth.”

“You like sweets too, Mother. Even more than Father and me.”

“No I don’t,” Rachel said before reaching a long arm and grabbing an almond cake from Darius’s plate.

“That’s mine! Give it back!”

His mother stuffed the round cake into her mouth until her cheeks puffed up like a squirrel. “Come and take it,” she said through her full mouth.

Darius and his father dissolved into peals of laughter. With sudden clarity, Darius remembered his earlier concern. “Even though I’m almost grown up, I can still come and visit Mother whenever I wish, can’t I, Father? It wouldn’t be good for her to be alone too often.”

He noticed the sheen of tears in his mother’s large, dark eyes before she lowered her lashes. With a sticky hand he reached out to pat her arm.