Harvest of Rubies (6 page)

Frada worked for Damaspia. He was one of her favored servants. And according to this tablet, he was being accused of stealing from Amestris. The queen mother was requesting his life in punishment for this crime.

To accuse Damaspia’s trusted man amounted to accusing the queen herself. This was no less than a declaration of war, a public battle between the two most powerful women in the empire: the king’s wife and the king’s mother. Frada was merely a pawn, poor fellow. I had worked with him on many occasions and knew him to be a scrupulous and honest man. Whatever Amestris sought to accomplish by this suit, it held no truth in it.

I studied the details of the accusation again. It spoke volumes of Damaspia’s ironclad control that she did not interrupt me in her agitation, but allowed me to read undisturbed as she paced her enormous chamber with rapid steps.

The queen owned a sizable village a day’s ride from Persepolis, over which Frada had charge. A rich and fertile land, it produced more fruit and grain than any of her other villages. It had only one drawback; the land shared a border with a large walnut grove owned by Amestris. During the last harvest, Amestris’s document charged, Frada had stolen
her
walnuts and had counted them toward Damaspia’s share.

“Well?” the queen snapped, when she saw me straighten from my study.

I chose my words with care. “There seems to be some confusion.”

“Confusion! This is an evil-hearted attempt to destroy a good man for the sake of harming me.”

The queen’s conclusion was the most obvious one, I had to concede. There was no love lost between the two women. If Amestris wished to embarrass her daughter-in-law, this might not be a bad plan. Yet in the language of the document I noted a genuine sense of outrage. The words sounded more emotional than legal in places, as though dictated by the wronged party rather than a disinterested scribe.

Furthermore, the document was written in Persian, the prestigious language of the court. If the legal document had been meant for the average man, it would have been prepared in Aramaic. For a royal brief such as this, tradition would require the use of Akkadian, the complicated language of old Assyria, still held in high esteem amongst the educated. But Akkadian was known predominantly by scribes, not by aristocratic women. Once again the personal nature of the document
struck me; this was not a detached legal construct. Affront leaked out of every accusing word.

I had another reason for hesitating. The queen mother’s chief scribe, Nebo, happened to be a friend of mine. In our own fashion, palace employees at times forged unique bonds of camaraderie. Nebo and I did not share the intimate secrets of our hearts, but we stood together as scribes sometimes strove to do, and exchanged what information we could without violating confidences. Nebo had told me that his mistress, though proud, was a fair woman. In over fifteen years of service, he had never known her to punish anyone without provocation. The picture he had painted was not of a woman who would cause harm through petty fabrications.

“Your Majesty,” I began, and hesitated. Without my bidding, the lion hunter’s last words echoed in my mind:
You will not last long in Persepolis with that mouth
.

“I have not known you to mince words before, scribe. Speak before you give me a sour stomach.” Damaspia clasped her hands behind her back, causing her thick gold bracelets to jingle like bells.

I bowed. “Give me a week to look into this charge, Your Majesty. I see no benefit in your rushing into open enmity with the queen mother.”

The queen raised a shapely eyebrow. “When I invited you to speak, I meant as a scribe. You forget your place. Your job is to tell me if this document is binding. Should I wish for political advice, I would appeal to greater minds than that of a mere girl who can read and write.”

“I beg your pardon.” It seemed my day for apologies. “The document is wholly legal, though …”

“What?” she snapped with impatience.

“The language is odd in places. For one thing, it is written
in Persian. It does not sound like the work of a scribe, but of one who is personally outraged.”

“I would not be surprised if she dictated the whole of this malevolent document with her own wrinkled lips,” the queen said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“Another irregularity is the date of the crime. The robbery happened during the last harvest, which would have been months ago. Why has the queen decided to complain of it now?”

“She is capricious and unreasonable. Who knows what is in the mind of that woman?”

I decided that I had said as much as I could and that the matter was out of my hands. The queen clearly had no interest in my opinion.

Damaspia dismissed me with a regal nod of her head, and with one final bow I retreated. I was at the door when she barked, “Wait.”

How could I have known that reluctant order would change my life?

“Explain your reservations.”

Like a fool, I did.

“You are saying you do not believe this to be a plot hatched by Amestris? You think she truly believes this drivel about Frada?”

“Quite so, Your Majesty.”

“How could this be when you know as well as I do that Frada would never steal a single shriveled walnut from that woman or anyone else? It is either Frada or Amestris. For my part, I know whom I believe.”

“I, too, believe Frada is innocent.” I shifted my weight from one leg to the other. The tension of the long formal audience with the queen was beginning to wear on me. My arm itched and I had to force myself not to answer its irritating demand.
Persian court protocol was fierce. “I cannot explain this mystery. I merely suspect that all is not as it seems.”

“What do you suggest? That I sacrifice Frada based on your unlikely suspicion of Amestris’s innocence?”

“Of course not, Your Majesty. But give me a week—or better, two—to try and solve this puzzle.”

“I give you three days.”

My heart sank. I could not get an audience with someone as lowly as an assistant apothecary in that time, let alone investigate such a complicated matter with the delicacy it required. I knew better than to argue, however. Resignedly, I bowed before retreating.

^*
446 BC

D
amaspia sent the queen mother’s clay tablet containing the details of the suit to the office I shared with my two assistants. The young servant bowed before handing me the covered document. “Her Majesty sends me with her compliments. I am to serve you for the next three days, mistress.”

Taken aback, I took the tablet from her hand. The queen was not in the habit of sharing her servants. Nor was I in the habit of having them. “Er, thank you,” I said. What was I to do with her? In her flowing yellow robe she seemed more suited to applying the latest beauty treatments to elegant women than to serving a harried, sweat-stained scribe. “What is your name?”

“Parisatis, mistress. Everyone calls me Pari.”

She was about my age, and pretty; her long limbs and slim neck made her appear like a new fawn when she moved. “Well, Pari, you are most welcome,” I said, trying to put her at ease.

After some moments of awkward silence I thought of a useful task for her. Scratching off a short note on parchment,
I gave it to her and instructed her to go to my father’s quarters in the bowels of Persepolis. Her eyes lit up; the royal palace held many wonders for a servant often restricted to the women’s apartments. I shook my head and turned to study Amestris’s clay tablet once more.

Had I made an enormous error in judgment? Would three days fly by with no breakthroughs as the queen mother spun her web to inflict irreparable damage upon my lady? Had I placed her and myself in a hopelessly precarious position?

I made my way to the exotic formal gardens for which the Persians were so famous. Their presence here in Persepolis was a minor miracle, for the climate of this part of the empire remained dry most of the year. Before the great king Darius’s engineers had dug qanats—a system of delicate shafts and tunnels that tapped into underground rivers—this land had been an arid desert. The qanats forced the earth to give up her secret waters without drying them, and transformed the land into a paradise of beauty.

I was blind to that exotic allure as I weaved my way through a marble avenue shaded by sycamore trees that had been planted with such exact spacing, it had required the skills of a scribe to work out the angles. I gripped the clay tablet with trembling hands. The sight of the familiar stone bench beneath the black mulberry tree calmed me a little, and I sank onto its smooth surface to await my father.

He had served as royal scribe for thirty years. In that time he had heard of more schemes and conspiracies than I had hair in my unplucked eyebrows. Perhaps he could help me solve this puzzle.

Now that we had our work to bind us together, we spent more time in each other’s company than we had when we lived in the same house. We were colleagues. In this we found common ground. Through my vocation, I had finally managed to earn my father’s esteem, if not his tender attachment.

I saw him walking toward me in the distance and rose to greet him. I was my father’s daughter in more ways than one; his black straight hair, his dark eyes, his short stature had all been repeated in me, looking even less prepossessing in a woman than in a man. I suspected that he had never fully forgiven me for that—for looking like him rather than my mother, who was, according to everyone who had known her, a woman of no small beauty. When she died, she took most of my father’s heart with her.

“Since when have you had a servant assigned to you?” he asked after greeting me.

“Since today. And the honor will last a mere three days.”

He frowned as he sat. “A temporary servant and an urgent summons to your father in the middle of the workday. Sounds important.”

I described my dilemma to him.

“Why have you become involved in this?” He pushed an agitated hand through his hair. “This is folly. You should never have said anything to the queen.”

“I couldn’t very well bear false testimony.”

“It is not false testimony to hold your tongue. You know nothing of the matter.”

“I know all is not as it seems.” Taking the cover from the tablet I urged him to read it. “See for yourself if I am right.”

My father took the tablet reluctantly and held it close to his nose; the years had not been kind to his eyes. I wondered what I would do if he told me that I had arrived at an erroneous
conclusion. The skin of my chest began to itch with annoying intensity; it was a reaction to acute anxiety that I had developed in recent years. I sat on the tips of my fingers, squashing the urge to scratch myself, and waited on my father’s pronouncement.

At last, he raised his head.

“Am I right?”

He shrugged. “Unlike you, I am not a mind reader. But yes, the language is unusual. Personal.”

I sighed with relief. “If the queen mother was indignant when she dictated it, it means that she believed this crime happened. She believed Frada stole from her.”

“So there really is a thief. All you have to do is find him. In three days.”

The itch on my chest spread to my arms. “It’s worse than that.”

“How could it be worse?”

“There are two possibilities. First, that a third party stole the walnuts and Amestris jumped to the conclusion that it must be Frada. This is a matter of simple theft though the wrong man is accused of the crime.”

My father, I could see from his intense gaze, had become interested in spite of his annoyance. “And the second possibility?” he asked.

“Not a simple robbery, but an intentional plot to rile Amestris against Damaspia. This is the more likely scenario. Why does the document accuse Frada of stealing the walnuts to count them toward
the queen’s
share? Why not say that he took the crop to enrich his own coffers? Surely a thief would take the crop and run, without leaving a trail to Frada or Damaspia. But someone interested in stirring trouble would make certain to implicate Frada as well as my lady.”