Artechim saw the fire in my eyes and his own widened immediately as he sensed my urgency. In fact, this was the first real test of my royal authority—to give an order to someone this adamantly. He turned on his heel and was gone, the rapid slapping sound of sandals on stone fading quickly into the distance. Mordecai gave me his usual tight embrace, this time punctuated by an extra long squeeze of the arms.
“I hope this can help you gain the King’s trust,” he said.
“It might. But I will also tell him your name as the source,” I answered.
“No. Leave me out of this.”
This time I flatly refused. As much as I wanted to give Mordecai the respect he deserved, I was, after all, Queen of Persia and capable of making a few decisions for myself.
When the door opened again, he hurried off with a quick wave for a farewell, still angry at my refusal to disguise his involvement. Memucan walked over, his brow furrowed at the interruption to his day, and asked me what the problem was. I relayed the entire message to him, along with the names Bigthana and Teresh—the guards Mordecai had discreetly identified with the help of other soldiers at the Gate. He asked me only if my source was reliable; I assured him that it was of the highest order. An old family friend. He, too, turned swiftly and disappeared into the Palace.
While I stood massaging my temples and wondering if I had just proven to be an ungrateful and disrespectful daughter, I heard Memucan shout from inside the door. And a remarkable thing happened. It was as though an invisible shock wave had traveled from the depths of Memucan’s larynx outward to the Palace and at the speed of lightning across the courtyards to the watchtowers. The great brass doors swung shut with a speed I never knew such massive objects could attain. Down below my vantage point, soldiers snapped into combat position, facing the Palace with their spears and swords held out before them and their knees bent. Civilians stopped walking and stiffened in their places, glancing in my direction with anxious expressions. My bodyguards rushed out from the door with panicked looks. “Your Highness, please come inside,” Artechim said, out of breath, “for they’re about to lock down the Palace doors. Please leave this courtyard at once!”
I rushed inside to a scene I hardly recognized. The hallway I had recently left, once thriving with milling crowds of Palace staff and functionaries, now resembled an occupied camp. All of the usual people now stood rigid against the walls, terrified of the points of weapons holding them in place by an equally motionless row of soldiers. I trod tentatively through their midst as the only person allowed to walk openly through this tense gauntlet. I thought of the last crowd I had walked through days before at my coronation. How things could change in just a few days!
I turned the corner and ran straight into a loud commotion. Screams echoed across the marble and the row of Palace staff against the walls seemed to ripple with sudden apprehension. I peered into a roiling mass of people that seemed to propel itself into the hallway from our bedchamber—I made out two soldiers being lifted at their waists by enormous members of the Immortals, Xerxes’ personal contingent.
“Death to Xerxes! I curse you all!” one of them was shouting. I could not believe he was so unhinged as to proclaim his guilt like that, but then, he must have known about the swiftness of Persian justice—especially when it came to royal security. Both men, I would later learn, had been found with concealed daggers upon their persons. Upon discovery, neither man had denied their intentions but spat haughtily upon their accusers and begun this shouting against the King. Someone had already draped the death scarf upon both of the men’s heads—they had mere minutes to live.
I certainly did not follow this grim procession out to its destination, but Xerxes had just the night before informed me about the gruesome method of royal execution. No swift and merciful decapitation for those who plotted against the King or otherwise angered him. No, special prisoners like these were stripped of their clothes, thrown to the ground, and impaled straight through their bodies upon the sharpened point of a very long wooden pole. As the point eventually emerged at the top of their throat—I will leave you to imagine the place at which it first entered their body—the log was raised up and dropped into a pre-dug hole, and the prisoner died a long and agonizing death as the centerpiece of an unspeakable aerial display.
Walking through the hallway, I winced as I recalled Xerxes’ account and watched the knot of soldiers recede from view. The King himself soon exited his room, his face as pale as the marble underfoot.
“Esther, Esther, are you all right?” he cried. “I heard you were the source of this information. How on earth did you learn of this?”
I thought again about my decision, then silently reaffirmed it. “I will tell you in confidence. An old family friend informed me. His name is Mordecai. He is a court scribe who does his work with royal couriers at the King’s Gate.”
Xerxes’ face grew solemn and majestic, and had I not known of the occasion I would have feared Mordecai in deep trouble. “Summon this Mordecai. I wish to speak to him.”
I exulted inwardly, thinking how much he deserved the accolade that awaited him. I knew he would have a moment of panic, but his recognition as a faithful, loyal subject would be worth it.
Xerxes called for his personal scribe to come with the Chronicles of the King, and we moved into one of the private dining rooms surrounded by a phalanx of tense soldiers.
“Can we not call off the alert?” I asked.
The King shook his head. “It is not over. We do not know who these men were working for. Surely there are other traitors about, awaiting my death.”
A general appeared at Xerxes’ side. “We will find them, your Majesty. The gallow poles will go up all over Susa.” I shuddered.
Mordecai was even paler when they brought him in than when I had seen him last. The soldiers sent to bring him had not been told whether he was a co-conspirator or a hero—only to not harm him. And since Mordecai did not know whether the plot had succeeded, none of them had any idea if he was going to his death.
Xerxes wasted no time putting him at ease. He stepped forward to greet Mordecai, grasped him by the shoulders and gave him a warm kiss on both cheeks.
“Mordecai, today you have saved my life, and for that you will have my eternal gratitude.” He turned to the scribe sitting off in the shadows. “Scribe, please record in the Chronicles of the King that Mordecai gave exemplary service to the Crown this day. Xerxes will be forever in his debt.”
Mordecai bowed low, the new glow on his features betraying the pride he was too humble to convey. “It is my honor to serve you, your Majesty,” he said.
“I understand you have known my beloved Esther for a great many years, honorable Mordecai.”
Mordecai glanced up at me with eyes frozen in shock, unable to formulate a response. Finally realizing that his pause was more pejorative than my disclosures, he spoke. “Ah, yes, your Majesty. I have known Her Majesty since childhood.”
Xerxes chuckled. “Well, Mordecai, when the time allows, you and I will have to sit down and have a long conversation.”
“Sir?”
“To determine how such a rare woman was raised.”
Mordecai glanced rapidly from Xerxes to me, trying to assess the situation. He took a deep breath and said, “I would welcome the occasion, your Majesty.”
“Upon the first opportunity available,” Xerxes continued, “a banquet will be given in your honor and a generous reward will be forthcoming. Let it be known that the King’s favor is upon you!”
Xerxes was not able to reward Mordecai in the customary fashion, which required two days or more to prepare, for the next day he departed for war. It was my first introduction to the truly excruciating aspects of royalty. As Queen I was obliged to wear a brave and optimistic face while constantly on the verge of weeping. We said our good-byes in the bedchamber, with a great many tears and long, wrenching hugs. Then, after an interminable dressing session in which he was fitted with a full ceremonial suit of armor, we rode through a triumphant crowd to the outer courtyard. There, we walked out to the crest of the Inner Court and looked out over the assembled troops. Once again a staggering mass of humanity lay arrayed before us, this time in perfect military rows. I stood two steps behind Xerxes as he held out a martial salute and was answered by the deafening Hail! in return. Then he turned back, wrapped me in a theatrical embrace, kissed me one last time and walked down to his chariot. He cracked his whip and rode off, and the Persian army followed him—taking hours to fully exit the city. I, the Queen of Persia, had to stand and wave . . . and weep inside.