SINCE MY HUSBAND BEGAN SPENDING all his time with a new favorite, my life had fallen into a peaceful and largely pointless routine. I woke every morning and submitted to the ministrations of my handmaids. They drew my bath, rubbed my skin with salt and oil, rinsed me clean, washed my hair, and anointed me with perfume. After the bath, hairdressing, and application of cosmetics, they dressed me in garments I would have desperately coveted as a young girl. Now they seemed little more than an unnecessary extravagance.
After dressing, I ate a light meal with my little dog, then I played with the royal children in the queen’s garden. Of all the hours in my day, I enjoyed this time most. The toddling boys I had met five years ago were now training with bows and arrows; the girls were learning to sing and dance. The crown prince and his two younger brothers were on their way to becoming young men. I watched them all, proud of their progress, and quietly missed Pharnaces, who had never been found.
I once had Hatakh make discreet inquiries about the boy’s disappearance, but after a day or two of searching he appeared in my chambers and told me that the boy’s disappearance would—and should—remain a mystery. “Some things,” he said, lifting a brow as he peered into my eyes, “are better off left alone.”
I had no idea what he meant, but accepted his response as a reminder that a queen’s power was quite limited.
When we finished our games, the children and I would sit in the shade while I told stories I’d learned from Mordecai—tales of David and Solomon, of Gideon and Joshua. I told them about King Saul, who had been richly blessed until he disobeyed, causing Adonai to give the throne to another.
The story had already escaped my lips when I realized it could come back to haunt me. If the king heard that I had taught his children a story about a failed ruler who lost his throne . . .
I smiled around the circle of young faces, hoping to change the subject. “And how are all of you today? Have you heard any interesting stories lately?”
“I have.” Darius, the crown prince, lifted his chin and boldly met my gaze. “I heard that you are a mere commoner and ashamed of your heritage. That is why you never talk about your father’s family.”
“An interesting rumor.” I smiled without humor. “Unfortunately, it is not true. I am descended from a great king, but I never talk about my father’s family because they are all gone. And I have learned that it is better to be concerned with the living than the dead.”
“Which king?” several of the children chorused, but I shook my head. “What does it matter? Your father is the greatest king in the world, and I am his. I am yours too, so why shouldn’t we live together in peace?”
My time with the children touched the barren place in my heart—sometimes filling it, sometimes opening the wound that still ached every time I looked at those sweet little faces. But I had turned my yearning for babies into a desire to influence the king’s children. Someone had to teach them as Mordecai and Miriam taught me. They needed to know that life consisted of more than jostling for power and destroying one’s enemies. They ought to know that they’d been created for a purpose, and that purpose was to know the one true God.
The Persians knew gods, of course—a plethora of them. The king worshipped Ahura Mazda, in statuary inscriptions at least, and on every important feast day my king would meet a priest, travel to an outdoor altar, and sacrifice an ox to ensure prosperity in the coming season. In private, however, rarely did the king ever talk of his god as anything other than a distant entity who required seasonal acknowledgment in order to keep the annual cycles of harvest and reaping on course. The priest’s prayers were more like ritual recitation than conversation, and if Ahura Mazda had ever performed a bona fide miracle, I was convinced no one would have been more astounded than my husband.
In truth, my years of marriage had convinced me that my husband was the god of his own life—he did what he wanted, when he wanted to do it. Only the great law of the Medes and the Persians constrained him, yet the king could amend those statutes so long as he did not change any decree that preceded his amendment.
Did I still love him? I did, but in a far different way than I had in our early months together. My giddy infatuation, born in the first blush of physical intimacy, had matured into something more compassionate, even maternal. As I shared weekly meals with my husband, I realized he was prone to extremes of light and darkness—he could be delighted with a new horse, a new treasure, or with me, and on those occasions he would laugh and talk as though shadows had never lain across his heart.
On other occasions, some dark memory or nightmare would torment his mind, leaving him sleepless and irritable, desperate for surcease. When he was in the grip of such darkness, I couldn’t help being relieved when he chose to leave me in my chambers . . . but then guilt would avalanche over me. What if I had the power to lighten his mood? Couldn’t my love make a difference in his outlook? I contemplated going to him on my own, but I never carried through. No rational being would approach the king unannounced while darkness occupied his thoughts.
By the time my king prepared to enter the twelfth year of his reign, I knew my marriage would not be the romantic dream I had envisioned as a girl. But I had learned to adapt and was happy pouring my love into the royal children and my little dog. The situation might have continued for many more years, but then I met the interloper who had come between us.
One day the king asked me to join him in the audience hall. I did, and I was amazed to discover a stranger standing by my husband’s side. “Haman,” one of my maids whispered. “He has become . . . close to the king.”
At our first meeting, I thought the new vizier charming. He was not a handsome man, nor unusually dignified, but he had a bright charisma that seemed to compel the other nobles to include him in their conversations. He also had obvious wealth, which he lavished on his wardrobe and on gifts for those in the royal circle.
I had no trouble understanding why the newcomer had become so popular. When he was presented to me, he knelt before my gilded chair and produced a necklace from a velvet bag—a gold chain featuring a pearl pendant. Pearls were a rare sight in our court, and Haman quickly explained that they were formed when a common sea creature discovered an irritating grain of sand inside its shell.
“The humble oyster wraps a material around the sand,” he went on, peering at me through half-closed eyelids, “and from trouble comes beauty. Judging by the size of this pearl, this oyster was troubled indeed.” He then offered me the gift, along with a wish that my troubles would always result in beauty like that of a pearl.
I accepted his gift with a polite smile, then handed it to one of my maids. In truth, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be indebted to this stranger—he reminded me of the sort of man Mordecai referenced when he warned about those who flatter with their lips.
But Haman paid only perfunctory attention to me, and before I left the throne room I realized I’d been tricked. Despite what Vashti wanted me to believe, my king wasn’t in love with another woman; he had become fascinated with this man. Still, I wasn’t terribly concerned about Haman until I learned that the man had begun to eat late dinners with the king, often talking with him well into the night . . . when the king could have been with me.
I might have borne my concerns privately, except for a chance meeting with Harbonah in the king’s garden. Harbonah bowed, wished me life and good health, then lowered his voice and asked what I thought about Haman the Agagite.
“I’ve only spent a few moments with him,” I said truthfully. “What do you think of the man?”
The eunuch’s mouth curled as if he wanted to spit. “I don’t like him.”
I lifted a brow, for Harbonah rarely spoke so bluntly. “What has he done?”
“As far as I can tell, he has done nothing improper, but his talk is so smooth and flattering I know he cannot be trusted. Worse still, when the king is in a dark mood, Haman tells him not to worry, for he will take care of everything. So the king takes the man at his word, surrendering his authority and his position to that upstart.”
I knew I shouldn’t be listening to gossip from a slave, even one I trusted as much as Harbonah. But he served the man I loved, and he undoubtedly had a better understanding of the situation than anyone else.
“That’s not all.” Harbonah took a half step closer and lowered his voice to a confidential note. “This Haman has been spying on your cousin. Mordecai has never prostrated himself before Haman, and he will not do so despite the king’s edict. Every day Haman rides past Mordecai’s post, and your cousin merely stares at him. Haman has not reacted yet, but I fear for your cousin and my friend. Haman has the king’s ear—”
So do I. The words sprang to my lips, but I could not utter a lie. I shivered as my blood ran cold. “You must warn Mordecai.”
“I’ve tried.” The eunuch’s voice cracked with desperation. “I’ve talked to him, but the man is as stubborn as a bloodstain. He won’t lower himself to a creature such as Haman.”
“Does he give a reason?”
Harbonah grunted. “He says something about his people and your people and ancient rivalries. And he doesn’t like Haman’s attitude.”
“He must be more careful.” I pressed my lips together as my thoughts raced. “Harbonah, you must take Mordecai a note from me. Maybe for my sake he will obey the law.”
Harbonah drew a deep breath, then pressed the bridge of his nose as if his head ached. “I pray you are right. A sincere warning from the right person might break the man’s will.”
“Let us handle the matter at once.” I walked toward the garden gate, quickening my pace as Harbonah followed the required distance behind me. Once we reached the queen’s palace, the eunuch waited in the antechamber while I went to my desk and scratched out a note on a sheet of papyrus. I folded it, sealed it with wax and the imprint of my ring, then went into the antechamber to deliver the message.
“Hurry, Harbonah,” I said, placing the letter in the eunuch’s hand. “Take this to Mordecai before the king notices your absence. This foolish standoff must not continue for even one more day.”