Hadassah Covenant, The (31 page)

It took me several moments to see what was actually taking place in the early-morning light. But soon I made out a large assembly of soldiers at attention, in full uniform, upon the innermost terrace. Artabanus stood in the front row with his five surviving commanders of the top regiment of palace guards. Before them stood a figure in full battle armor, which I soon recognized as Artaxerxes himself. I could not help my gasp of concern, for despite his height he seemed like such a boy, standing alone before the murderous intentions of such grown, battle-hardened men. Yet behind him, in full armor and holding one of the largest swords I have ever seen a man grasp, I recognized Megabyzos, the famous general of his father’s and even grandfather’s wars against the Greeks. The silver glint on the sword matched the color of his hair and beard.

I remember thinking to myself,
There before Artaxerxes stands
assembled probably the whole gang of conspirators who murdered his father
. And then it struck me—that surely was no coincidence. Artaxerxes had assembled them there for a purpose. I whispered a quick prayer of gratitude that Mordecai and I had been able to give him that information.

Gripped by curiosity now, I knelt and continued to watch from my hidden place in the shadow of the curtain. Artaxerxes barked out several orders which I could not make out, clearly intending to review the troops. Was he merely asserting his impending kingship over the army? I hoped there was more to his scheme. Clearly, shouts and martial trappings would not be sufficient to quell the conspiracy.

Then the loud voices ceased. Artaxerxes stepped up to Artabanus and inclined his head, speaking softly. I would later learn that the prince was making an odd request of the man who supposedly managed a great deal of his personal safety—he was complaining of his own armor being too small and asking to exchange his with the older man’s. How I wish I had been there, standing over the prince’s shoulder, to see the proud captain’s expression upon being asked to disrobe before most of the Royal Palace!

And yet Artabanus, anxious to continue his guise of amiable friend to the prince, could not refuse such a command from a royal—not publicly, not today. So, reluctantly, he began to do the unthinkable—right there in the front row of the military review—the arduous process of removing his armor plates, one by one. Of course, the Palace Guard, like their more elite colleagues the Immortals, are quite fastidious about their battle dress, festooning their armor with all sorts of capes, feathers, and gold adornments. I nearly laughed out loud at seeing the captain’s pink, very unwarriorlike flesh revealed to the light of day.

Finally Artabanus stood almost nude in only his inner short tunic before the prince who—I suddenly noticed—had not removed any armor of his own.

There was a charged, confused pause in which Artabanus seemed to scowl, apparently unaware of what he should do next. Making all sorts of uncertain nods and shrugs, he grasped his helmet and attempted a ceremonious gesture of handing it to Artaxerxes. Which, of course, looked all the more ridiculous because of the giver’s
laughable state. Imagine an almost-naked man bowing forward, holding a helmet nearly large and decorated enough to cover his entire midsection, with five hundred fully-armed soldiers standing at attention behind him! I strained my ears for the sound of laughter, of even snickering. Amazingly, I heard none. The guards’ discipline was amazing.

Artaxerxes did not move a muscle to accept the captain’s proffered headpiece.

With a swiftness and a ferocity that took my breath away, he grasped his sword, withdrew its blade, wheeled and plunged it straight through the captain’s pale belly.

I heard a sound, whether my own or that of the combined soldiers, I would never be sure. For Artabanus fell to his knees, a bright red fount gushing from the wound, as the prince withdrew his sword with a grimace and the body fell heavily sideways.

Then everything seemed to happen at once. Never having witnessed actual battle firsthand before, I was struck by the chaotic and frenzied pace of its motion. But the front row of Artabanus’ commanders unsheathed their weapons and, with a single shout, moved upon Artaxerxes. The prince had the advantage, with not only an already drawn sword but the charge of bloodlust upon him, and then an even better fortune still—for Megabyzos sprang into action, waving his massive blade about him like a madman. I saw at least one head fly off its shoulders, and severed limbs tossed about like branches in a windstorm.

I wanted to turn away and vomit, but I could not wrench my eyes from the scene.

For a moment I found it impossible to gauge who had won the advantage, so furious was the grappling and massing of combatants. But the scene quickly grew even more difficult to watch, for the terrace’s fine gray marble now shone a bright, slick crimson, and screams of terror and agony now drowned out bellows of challenge and triumph.

Behind the frontmost rows, the greater number of soldiers had abandoned their formation and seemed to mill about in confusion, unsure whether to take the side of their captain or their king.

But their uncertainty did not last long.

From a side walkway came the unmistakable sound of countless leather boots and another shout, so loud and strong that I realized at once it came from the throats of a hundred men at full battle charge.

I recognized the uniforms at once—the Immortals.

Of course
! The Immortals’ commander was Otanes, one of the empire’s most celebrated war heroes and noblemen. And, as it happened, he was also the father of Vashti, Xerxes’ disgraced Queen and Artaxerxes’ mother. But this also made Otanes Artaxerxes’ grandfather. In three straight columns the vaunted warriors fell upon the scene of carnage—not so much to massacre as to quell the confusion, I soon realized. At top speed and with an intensity of purpose that filled me with awe, one column inserted itself between the bewildered troops and the actual fighting. Another jumped heedlessly into the fray, pulling apart combatants both wounded and whole.

The third column seemed to concentrate itself on the surviving sons of Artabanus, who once pulled from the carnage were quickly deprived of their heads.

Just as quickly, the battle was over.

But my eyes could not discern the state of Artaxerxes—

—until, with my heart in my throat, I saw him being pulled to one side by a pair of Immortals. He seemed to be thrashing in pain, his armor stained with blood. Just beside him, Megabyzos was being attended, too, seemingly in even greater injury.

I had just seen an historic display of bravery and cunning. But I also realized that someone I loved was in danger of his life, for the second time in less than a day.

And perhaps my own survival lay in the balance. As Queen I was inextricably linked with Xerxes and his family. Any change in the dynasty would likely mean my own head.

The time for watching from a high perch was over. If I was to be in danger, I would at least be at the side of my surrogate son, the young man I had loved like my own since he was a mere baby—for I did truly love him.

I rushed out of my quarters and ran at my best speed through the palace, threading my path through a labyrinth of pale and frightened faces, down long corridors and the grand staircase to the terrace doors. I burst out and found my momentum slowed first by the brightness
of the day, and then by a cordon of Immortals who had now surrounded the battleground. In fact, I actually rushed into the arms of one hapless soldier, who made to restrain me until he heard me call out my name and recognized my face. Bewildered, he lowered his arms and allowed me through.

A moment later I almost wished he had held me back.

I literally felt myself skating on a sheen of blood as I rushed toward Artaxerxes’ side. I did not find him by spotting him directly, but rather the thick cordon of Immortals and two grieving women—his weeping sisters Amytis and Rhodogyne.

Friend to both of them, but not as close as to their brother, I shouldered my way through to see what I could of my beloved prince. I dare not call him
son
precisely, because I did not give birth to him. Nevertheless, ever since his mother Vashti’s disappearance and presumed murder (at a time when she was widely rumored to be with child) followed by his strange arrival—a sleeping baby carried into the palace on the arm of a warrior and left there with only a note stating his name—I had acted much as a mother would have.

And that is why, when I first looked down and beheld his condition, my grief was so much more intense than that of a subject toward her new king. Although he was pale, and his eyes seemed to be half trained elsewhere, the state of his wounds allowed me to roughly estimate that he would live.

He focused his eyes on mine and smiled grimly. And though weak in body, he muttered to me with as much finality and authority as he could muster, “Tell Mordecai I heeded his warning. I took care of my enemy.”

I nodded and squeezed his hand. In that moment, kneeling before him, I realized that the Persian Empire had a new King.

My next thought was,
I am no longer Queen
. The knowledge dawned within me like the sudden quenching of a precious light.

But true to my training, I kissed his bloody hand before rising, then whispered my acknowledgment to him.

“Let me be the first to say to you, my son, ‘Live long and live well, O King of Persia.’”

That is all I remember of that scene. The rest is a hazy dream of hurrying forms and shouted orders. I must have gone weak in the
knees, for I do recall being carried by courtiers into my private Queen’s chambers. I think it was my arrival there that brought the full emotional onslaught surging into my bosom.

Xerxes is dead. My husband is gone. I am no longer Queen of Persia. These would no longer be my living quarters
.

And yet, I lamented, why should I worry about where I live, when I’m not sure I
want
to live without him? I vacillated between extreme grief and overwhelming anxiety. And to make matters worse, I knew full well the utterly dangerous place the palace had just become.

Chapter Thirty-five

N
AQSHI-I
-R
USTAM, SOUTH OF
P
ERSEPOLIS
, B
URIAL
D
AY

I will always remember the funeral procession to Naqshi-i-Rustam, Xerxes’ burial place. Despite being pressed mercilessly for decisions from every level of palace leadership, Mordecai had set aside his urgent Prime Minister’s duties long enough to ride with me and Jesse
cum
Hathach at the head of the stadias-long mourners’ procession. I was endlessly grateful for his compassion, for I feared I would not have endured the trip without both of them nearby. We rode just behind Artaxerxes, who sat propped up on his largest warhorse before a cantle as tall he was. A dozen of the empire’s best physicians had argued for days about whether the crown prince would survive the journey, at his precarious point of recovery. And yet the busiest hive of activity surrounded Mordecai, who during this time of transition represented the very glue of dynastic continuity.