Esther : Royal Beauty (9781441269294) Page 6

  Though Parysatis and I were only girls, we couldn’t help getting caught up in the fever of war—the city was infected with it. Our devotion to the army only increased when Babar joined the army as an officer. Parysatis pretended that her brother’s position was no great honor, but one day I saw him riding a fine horse next to Mushka, nephew to the king.

  I clutched at my throat, amazed to see him in such royal company. The realization that I knew a man who rode only an arm’s length from a man who knew the king left me breathless.

  Parysatis and I took pride in our loyalty and did whatever we could to aid the king’s military effort. We bought silk in the king’s colors and wore our blue and gold dresses whenever we thought the army might march in or out for a training exercise. We cheered for the soldiers as they practiced maneuvers on the field; we stood by the city gates and offered dippers of cool water when the weary Immortals entered Susa. Of all the king’s men, they were the most impressive—ten thousand highly trained fighters, their beards curled and oiled, their long hair gathered at their necks. They wore brightly colored garments, gold earrings and golden chains, carrying their spears in their right hands, with their bows and quivers hanging from their left shoulders. Rumor had it that if one Immortal fell, another would immediately rise up to take his place, so they were, in truth, an immortal company.

  When the commanders and generals stood before a gathering of Susa’s citizens to proclaim that the king would soon ride off to extend the glory of Persia and bring liberty to the citizens of Greece, we listened and wept, realizing that some of the men might not return from battle. The thought of beautiful Babar lying dead on some patch of foreign soil tortured my sleep, but Parysatis told me not to worry. “He will not do much fighting,” she said, shrugging. “Mushka has asked him to serve as a messenger for the king.”

  The news left me wide-eyed with astonishment and joy. Not only would Babar be safe, but he would spend hours in the presence of the king himself.

  The preparation for war awakened a passionate patriotism within my heart, but Mordecai and Miriam only shook their heads when I reported on the progress of the campaign.

  “We are citizens of Persia, yes, but this is not our home,” Mordecai reminded me more than once. “We are children of Abraham. We are of Israel.”

  I nodded, but in those days Israel felt more like a concept than a reality, my Jewish friends only a collection of dour, stodgy friends who insisted on tradition above all else.

  Nothing short of dire illness could have prevented me from watching the great caravan assemble on the plain. With Parysatis by my side, we sat on a step of the grand staircase and stared at the pageantry of war on full display—bright colors, horses, men, and wagons clad in gleaming metal armor, flashing weapons, and heavily muscled men. The army had been divided into divisions, and for seven days a different division departed for the battlefield. I had never seen anything like it in all my fourteen years.

  When the last group of horses disappeared over the horizon, I clutched at my throat, drowning in a flood of adolescent devotion. Those strong warriors, riding off to face noble death—such unbelievable bravery! Such honorable hearts!

  Mordecai and Miriam must have sighed in relief when I came home, exhausted, and told them the army had departed. The whirlwind of activity surrounding the royal fortress vanished with them, leaving Parysatis and me bereft and bored.

  Chapter Nine

  Harbonah

  I KNOW NOTHING OF THE ART OF WAR, but my uneducated eye convinced me of my master’s conviction that quantity must defeat quality. I found myself traveling in the midst of a huge army, probably the largest ever assembled, while a navy of over a thousand ships sailed parallel to our land route. By placing his faith in intimidating numbers, my master forgot the lesson his father learned at Marathon: the swift little bee can defeat the ponderous lion.

  Though I have often prayed to forget that long, arduous journey, my memory has not dulled over time. Most of the king’s troops traveled on foot along the Royal Road that stretched from Susa to Sardis while the king and his generals rode in magnificent carriages. The procession was so gigantic that a family seeing us approach on the first day of the week would not see the end of our convoy until sunset of the seventh day. Our men, cattle, and horses drained so many wells and small creeks along the route that those unfortunate enough to live on the king’s highway had to find alternate sources of water.

  I worried about the thirsty slaves traveling at the rear of our company, but my master seemed not to care about anything but forward progress.

  I had never seen the man so possessed. His eyes held a light that burned like a flame. He slept restlessly, even after enjoying the company of a concubine, and frequently woke before sunrise, eager to break camp and move ahead.

  Once we reached Sardis, only the Aegean Sea stood between us and Greece. But too many miles of water separated us, so we turned north, toward the Black Sea, where only a narrow strait blocked our passage.

  My master called a halt when we reached the Hellespont, a channel so narrow we could see the opposite shore. The king consulted with his engineers, who theorized that it would be possible to build a bridge using the ships of the royal navy. The king then ordered hundreds of ships into the channel, and the engineers tied them together with ropes. My master believed he had solved the problem, but the gods who rule the wind and waves were not on our side. Before even a single soldier could cross, a sudden storm destroyed the bridge, snapping the ropes as if they were threads.

  I have never seen the king so enraged, his eyes so black and dazzling with fury. As I stood trembling at his side, terrified that his anger would turn toward those closest to him, my master ordered that the waters of the sea be whipped and branded with red-hot irons. His troops hesitated only a moment, then leapt to obey, flinging iron fetters onto the roiling waters and stabbing the surface with hot irons. The sea responded with steam and hissing, as if it understood that it was being punished.

  “Oh, vile waterway!” the men chanted as they disciplined the treacherous waters. “Xerxes lays on you this punishment because you have offended him, though he has done you no wrong! The great king will cross you even without your permission, for you are a treacherous and foul river!”

  I watched, aghast, for I had never seen any Persian treat a river with such disdain. Persians revered their rivers, for flowing water is a source of life, and in all my travels with the king’s household I had never seen a servant so much as wash his hands in a river lest he befoul it. Yet before my disbelieving eyes, Persian warriors and befuddled mercenaries up and down the shoreline expended their frustration on the waterway.

  Why didn’t they strike at the wind, which had been just as traitorous as the river?

  At that moment, in a flash that was barely comprehendible, I realized that my master was not well. Though his muscles gleamed beneath his tunic, though he rarely coughed and never fainted, though he walked with an air of authority and commanded instant obedience, no man punished the river unless he was confused or tormented by an evil spirit. His men knew this too, and though they obeyed him, their wild grins and exaggerated gestures only served to emphasize the absurdity of his command.

  Apparently the scourging of the sea did not satisfy the king’s need to vent his frustration. He summoned the engineers who created the floating bridge; when they stood before him, shamefaced and cringing, he ordered their execution. The hapless builders, most of them weeping like women, were impaled on stakes outside the camp.

  I watched, my flesh crawling beneath my white slave’s tunic, as my master called for a second corps of engineers. When no one volunteered, he called for the assistants of the men he had executed and placed them in charge of building a second bridge. More than one tanned face went pale at the assignment, but oil lamps burned in their tents throughout the night.

  The next morning the assistants offered a second plan: they would build two bridges, one for the soldiers and another, farther downst
ream, for the livestock. They would use thicker ropes to lash the ships together. And as an extra precaution, they would build large windlasses on shore, a winch at each end of the floating bridge to keep the ropes taut.

  Knowing their lives were at stake, the engineers labored for weeks, carefully positioning the boats, lashing the vessels together, and securing the ropes with the windlasses. When the bridge finally floated in its place, the engineers strengthened the structure by placing embankments of timber, stone, and packed earth across the ships’ decks. I could barely believe my eyes when a veritable road rose from the sea.

  And then we crossed.

  My master’s army marched through Greece, intent upon reaching Athens, the city that had dispatched its men to Marathon to defeat Darius. Fortunately, we did not encounter hostility along the way. Every city we encountered en route submitted, offering my king food and hospitality, content to let him pass through the land until he reached his destination. Every night we feasted on the best Grecian culture had to offer, and every morning our troops gathered up items of value and we moved on.

  I felt a little guilty about stripping the populace as we traversed the land, but the practical aspect of my nature reminded me that we had left the people alive and unharmed. If they had resisted, their cities would be corpse-filled ruins, and their children would be marching away with nooses around their necks and fetters on their wrists. . . .

  The thought nudged a memory from the dark recesses of my mind. I had once marched along an unending road with my hands tied. My wrists still bore scars where the rope had chafed the skin away, and my neck would never be smooth and unmarked.

  But an orphan slave had few prospects, and I had been more fortunate than most.

  Chapter Ten

  Hadassah

  WITHOUT THE KING, Susa seemed like a body without an energizing spirit. The royal complex still glistened in the slanting rays of a sunset, but the aura of the palace had faded. Men still climbed the gleaming staircases to conduct business in the king’s name, but they climbed without urgency and walked without trepidation. Mordecai often came home early, stating that his office had no visitors. The lines in his forehead relaxed, and he smiled more than usual.

  Life without the king might be easier for Mordecai, but for me, Susa had become a dull no-man’s-land. Without the influx of foreign visitors, Susa closed her shutters and drew inward. Many merchants left the bazaar or closed up their shops. The talented men and women who worked silver, brass, and gold in the Valley of the Artists moved away, in search of other wealthy settlements whose residents could afford the luxury of art. Even shepherds moved their flocks farther south, where the grass hadn’t been torn and trampled by wagons and cattle.

  I remained at home, helping Miriam, working in her garden, milking the goat. Mordecai said nothing about my marriage, and I didn’t mention the topic. Life with Binyamin would probably be even duller than life with Mordecai and Miriam, so I resolved to remain quiet and content. And bored.

  As I entered my fifteenth year, I wondered if life—and the king—would ever return to Susa.

  We heard rumors from the battlefield, of course, as riders from the royal post circulated reports to the governors of the satrapies. We heard about our great king beating the sea into submission at Hellespont; we heard about his amazing victories over Greek cities in the north. We heard that the thunderous approach of his army so frightened rulers that they threw open their city gates and welcomed him, declaring themselves his slaves to avoid facing his sword.

  Merchants in the bazaar draped blue and gold banners over their canopies, proudly displaying the king’s colors. Others emphasized their loyalty to the army, loudly proclaiming that they had donated so many baskets of fruit, so many yards of silk, or so many chickens.

  One morning I left Miriam with the weaver and saw Parysatis walking near another booth. Instead of calling to her, I threaded my way through the crowd, intending to tap her shoulder and surprise her. But before I could catch up, I saw my friend glance over her shoulder and dart down an alley and then run between two brick buildings.

  I stared after her, perplexed. She hadn’t seen me, so this couldn’t be a game. So why was she behaving like a furtive thief?

  I followed to the opening of the alley and saw her at a distance. She walked quickly, her head down and a covered basket on her arm. Intrigued, I followed, but caution stilled my lips.

  At the end of the alley, Parysatis turned, leaving my sight, so I quickened my steps until I came to the end of the alley and stood in a patch of sunlight. A pile of rotting fruit stood in a corner, emitting an odor that nearly made me sick. Parysatis was kneeling beside it, talking to someone who remained hidden from view.

  Concerned for my friend’s safety, I stepped forward. “Parysatis!”

  She turned, color flooding her face. “Hadassah! You shouldn’t be here.”

  “So why are you here?”

  She stood and turned, shielding whomever crouched behind her. “I’m making a delivery, that’s all. Come, let me walk you back to the bazaar.”

  Terrified for her, I pulled away from Parysatis’s outstretched arm and spied a man on the ground, her basket on his lap. The man’s dark hair was matted and dirty, his hands covered in filth. I had seen beggars who looked like this, but my friend had never shown any interest in beggars.

  “Who is this?” The question slipped from my lips before I could stop it, and the man’s head lifted at the sound of my voice. For an instant I stared at the familiar face; then my heart thudded. “Babar! Are you hurt? Were you wounded in battle?”

  I wanted to push Parysatis out of the way and kneel beside him, cleanse his wounds, do whatever was necessary to restore him to health, but something like a wry smile snaked across his lips. “Greetings, Hadassah. It is good to see you.”

  I stared in disbelief. “You’re not wounded?”

  “He’s not wounded; he’s hungry.” Parysatis crossed her arms and turned to regard her brother. “He says he’s not going back to the king.”

  “Not going back? I still don’t understand why he’s here.”

  “I don’t care if I ever see the king again.” Babar’s gaze strafed my face, and then he took a loaf from Parysatis’s basket and tore at it with his teeth.

  “Please, Hadassah.” Parysatis pulled at my arm. “Please, we must go. You cannot tell anyone that you have seen him; you must not speak of this.”

  “But—” I waved at the distant city gates through which Babar had ridden away months before. “He is a friend of Mushka, and Mushka is the king’s nephew. Why is Babar here? Who would ever want to leave the king?”

  “After being around the mighty Xerxes, I can’t understand why anyone would want to be near him.” Babar looked up at me, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the shadows cast by the heaps of garbage. “The king is a madman, and anyone who chooses to serve in his presence is a fool.”

  I stepped back, repulsed by Babar’s description of the king and horrified by the depths to which he had fallen. How could I have imagined myself married to this creature? To a man who did not honor and respect my king? To a deserter?

  “He says the king is not to be trusted.” Parysatis tugged at my arm as her words flowed in a steady stream. “He fears for his life, Hadassah. The king executes anyone who displeases him, even if they have done nothing wrong. He has already killed three messengers who brought him bad news, so Babar was terrified he’d be next.”

  “All soldiers risk their lives,” I replied, my voice cold in my ears. “Why should Babar be an exception?”

  “He doesn’t consider himself an exception—”

  “All soldiers,” Babar interrupted, “risk their lives in battle, but I found my life at risk simply by being in the king’s presence. He is unpredictable and capricious. He is dangerous, an adder with a swift and deadly bite.”

  “He is not; he could not be.” I drew myself up to my full height, convinced that Babar lied to disguise his own cowardice. “
My cousin works for him, and Mordecai is the steadiest, wisest man I know. He would tell me if the king were anything but brave. You have fled from battle only because you are afraid.”

  “Hadassah, please.” Tears streaked Parysatis’s face; her distress—or her shame—was genuine.

  “I’ll go.” I turned to leave. “And I won’t say anything, but not for your sake, Babar. I will remain silent because I do not want to shame Parysatis, whose brother is a coward.”

  My friend burst into tears as I slipped my arm around her shoulders and led her from the place.

  “He’s wrong, you know,” I told her as we walked back to the bazaar. “The king is a great man, and your brother is the fool. Everyone adores our king, and how could so many people be wrong?”

  “I know you must be right,” she replied, swiping her face with her sleeve. “And I know Babar has done wrong. But what can he do? He can’t go back to the war and he can’t go home. Father would kill him for running away, and the king would execute him for desertion.”

  “Babar has made his decision, so now he must live with it,” I said, squeezing her shoulder. I felt great compassion for my best friend, but as we walked through the alley, I wondered how I could have ever imagined myself in love with a man who could be so rash and reckless.