Game of Queens (11 page)

She drew me over to the waiting bed, made it easy for me to follow her down onto the silks and furs. By the time she had me half-undressed, I was more than half in love with her. My first woman.

My
only
woman. Ever.

Or so I thought on that one precious night.
Now, and never again.

But as in so many other things, I was wrong, although I did not learn that for many years, in yet another life.

I lay there beside her and wondered if she could see how hard my heart beat. To me, each throb seemed to shake my whole body.
This one night will be all I will ever have. This is the only woman I shall ever touch
 …

Then, as despair lay heavy in my bones, something spoke to me.
Do not abandon hope. A task awaits you. Will you let evil thrive?

I do not know which god or goddess chose to speak to me that night. If I did, I would build a temple of gold in that deity's honor. Those few words strengthened me, gave me purpose.

I will survive. I will live, and I will pay back to Haman every pain he has ever caused.
I looked at Zebbani, who possessed everything that makes a woman desirable to men. My life, if I survived the knife, would be spent as less than a man—I would be seen as a safe servant and guardian of women. If I were strong and clever, I could rise high in such service.…

“Teach me what pleases a woman,” I said to the finest courtesan in all Shushan. “Teach me how to make a woman happy.”

*   *   *

She did—and more, Zebbani taught me what I had not even thought to ask: how to please a man. I barely listened to what she said, but my body remembered, later. Sometimes I wondered just how much Zebbani knew of Haman's plans for me, for that knowledge proved very, very useful. Men have more interest in young pretty eunuchs than women do.

And the last words she spoke to me as the lamps guttered out at dawn remained, echoing through the long years until I gained happiness. On very dark nights, when I counted hours and could not sleep, I would hear that faint echo, and wonder if Zebbani had been a woman at all. Surely only a
peri
or a
fravashi
could have repeated my own thoughts back to me; only a goddess could have given me such a blessing. Perhaps she had been Daena Herself, Judge of the Dead.

“You think to escape Fate, but you cannot. If I could procure escape, do you think
I
would be here?” She laid her hand upon my cheek; her palm smelled of musk. “My chains are very pretty, O Master of Treasures, but gold imprisons as surely as iron. All I can do for you is tell you what I tell myself, when I cannot sleep.”

“And what is that?” I asked.

“Make your enemies pay.” She leaned forward and pressed her lips to my forehead, softly, as if she were my mother. “And make yourself prosper.”

*   *   *

I remember horror and I remember pain—but I survived the knife, and my body healed. And I was fortunate, for already I had become enough of a man that no one would ever think me a woman. But neither would I ever be mistaken for a whole man. My beauty fell into the realm between the two … and I knew that beauty, too, was as much a weapon as knowledge and courage. I would need all the weapons I could attain to achieve my goal:

Haman's downfall.

I wanted him to suffer as my mother had suffered. I wanted him to know the Three Pains: of body, of mind, of heart. All I did would aim, like a poisoned arrow, at that target. Not an easy task, nor a swiftly achieved one. Even at the age of fourteen, I knew my vengeance lay long years away. But I was young.

I could wait.

*   *   *

Zebbani had advised me to weigh my own worth, to gauge my appearance as if it were a weapon.
“Which it is. Never forget that.” Zebbani had smiled. “Always make sure you own a very, very good mirror. Silver, if you can get it. Bronze, if you cannot. Failing either, find an honest critic.” I had asked her for her judgment, and she told me coolly, “You are very beautiful, Jasper. But never think that beauty alone is enough.”

By the time I healed, I had studied myself carefully, trying to prepare for whatever would come next. In my room was a silver mirror only as large as my hand—but it was highly polished, and I had ample time to stare into it. Small as it was, I tilted and angled the shining disk, gazing upon myself intently. Zebbani had told me I was beautiful—but my true father's dark Abyssinian blood had mingled with the pure Persian of my mother's to create a strange, exotic creature.

I was tall, far taller than most boys of fourteen, supple and slender as the hunting cheetahs kept in the royal stables. My skin was far darker than amber; my eyes slanted long over high cheekbones. My hair curled without aid from me, and it had not been cut since the day Haman killed my mother. Flowing night I could gather into my hands.
Long enough to braid into a rope to wrap around Haman's neck. Long enough to choke out Haman's life.

If I had possessed anything at all with which to cut that braided hair from my head, I would have killed Haman even if I died myself for it. But I did not. Haman had ensured there was no blade of any kind for me to take up in my hand.

I wasted many hours wishing for that blade—of course, with a blade, I would not need to cut my hair, for instead I could have cut Haman's throat, as he had my mother's. I always ended by chanting silently,
Wait. Not now. But someday. Wait.

Words I used as a shield every time Haman came to threaten and bully, for he could not resist gloating over his next scheme for my life. He had not yet divulged this, but clearly he expected me to await it with terror. Having survived gelding, I found it hard to worry over his brutal mocking hints. But I feigned fear, and refused to meet Haman's eyes. I convinced him I was terrified. Helpless. Why should he not believe that? As I learned much later, Haman fed on fear.

*   *   *

Haman had gloated for so many months over how he would sell me that I had almost given up hoping for it—you may think it odd that I longed to be sold, but I knew only that would free me from Haman. So the day Haman had me brought into his courtyard to be inspected by the dealer's keen eyes, I was anxious to make a good impression on the man. I did not want him shaking his head and walking away without me.

Summoned, I followed my guard down to the shadowed archway. In the courtyard beyond, I saw Haman talking with a bored-looking man with the sleek, well-fed look of a successful merchant. Clearly Haman extolled my virtues; equally clearly, the man discounted at least half of what Haman said. But then Haman came over to where I stood and grabbed my arm.

“See for yourself—here is the boy.” Haman yanked me into the full light, and I saw the man's eyes widen.

But the slave dealer was canny; did not admire me too openly. “Yes, he is pretty enough—but what is wrong with him?” the trader asked. “I have no time to waste haggling over a boy suffering from the falling sickness or so bad-tempered even beating will not cure the fault.”

Haman smiled and shook his head. “His fault is that I cannot endure the sight of him since his mother died.”

I saw understanding in the trader's face, and a certain sympathy. I almost admired Haman's cunning; he told truth—in part. I listened as they haggled over my future, and I wondered if my calm obedience surprised Haman. If it did, he made a virtue of my tameness.

“You'll have no trouble with him,” Haman said, as he and the slave dealer agreed upon my price. “The boy is a coward, like all eunuchs.”

“Truly, they are all so, and sly as cats.” There was no real interest in the dealer's voice as he agreed with Haman.

Even as hate burned through my veins, I listened, and learned what I was expected to be now.
A cunning coward. I can play that part. And I can wait. And someday, Haman, I will avenge my mother, and my own life.

The trader touched my arm. “Come along, boy.” Haman smiled like a wolf, expecting me to protest, to struggle, to watch me dragged away.
Oh, no, ‘Father.' I will never give you what you crave.

At that moment, I desired only one thing: to destroy Haman's fierce triumph. I reached out and took the trader's hand and let him lead me away. I looked back only once, when we paused for the gatekeeper to open the heavy door to the street beyond.

And when I looked back, I smiled. For long years afterward, I cherished the swift baffled anger on Haman's face.

I had won that small prize, at least.

*   *   *

Because I let tears fill my eyes and let timid-seeming smiles tremble on my lips, and because I was beautiful and slender and only a boy still, the trader thought me cowed and biddable. I did not disillusion him; I hoped even now to escape the fate Haman had condemned me to. I would always be a eunuch—but I vowed on my mother's blood that I would not remain a slave.

*   *   *

To my surprise and relief, I was not forced to endure the humiliation of the public auction block. The trader to whom Haman had sold me regarded me as a valuable asset. As such, my sale would be as carefully calculated as that of a rare gemstone. Nor was the man unkind to me—why should he be? I gave him no trouble, and he wished to get as large a price for me as possible. I, too, wished that. The more I cost, the more I would be valued and the better I would be treated.

Or so I thought then. I was too inexperienced to know that while it was true for most owners, for some a high price served as goad.

Just before the sale, the slave trader presented me with a gift to ease my path through this new life. “Here, boy—” He handed me a small ivory box. “This is for you. Open it.” I did and found myself looking at a dozen gilded pills. Puzzled, I tilted the box and let one of the gold spheres slide into my hand.

“Go on,” he urged. “Take it.”

I hesitated, then did as he had ordered. I was, after all, known to be both meek and obedient.

The poppy's gift eased tension I had not realized I suffered, and let me enjoy being readied for display to potential bidders. By the time I had been bathed and massaged with sweet oil so that my skin gleamed, and my hair combed so that it waved down my back like a dark cloud, I found myself smiling at everything and nothing.

The slave merchant inspected me carefully and nodded his approval to the servants who had tended me. I smiled again; he said, “Good boy,” and patted my shoulder as if I were a pet dog. He led me into a large room lit by dozens of lamps. The little flames sent light dancing over my oiled skin, and that, too, seemed worthy of amusement. But I did not laugh, for the lamplight glinted on watching eyes.

Men stared, studying me, assessing my face and body. The opium seemed to withdraw, abandoning me to the gaze of avid eyes.

In later years, I would have known how to react in such circumstances. I would have made it my business to discover who might attend the sale merely to watch, and who to buy, if he could. And I would have known how to convey my interest to the buyer I wished to win the bidding. A glance at the proper moment could persuade another hundred darics from the right man.

But I was only fourteen, and required all my strength of mind merely to stand calm. I refused to offer up even one tear for the amusement of these men. I kept my eyes downcast as the slave merchant extolled my virtues; I must have seemed modest, or shy. Better they think that of me than see the anger burning in my eyes.

I heard voices calmly offering coin upon coin. Sometimes there would be a pause—I slanted a glance up through my lashes to see why, and discovered that some men merely lifted a finger to indicate a bid. More and still more was offered as I stood there. Words flowed into a babble of noise. Time slowed, became meaningless.

And then suddenly it was over. I belonged to a new owner, and I could only hope he would be kind.

*   *   *

My new owner treated me as if I were a dog he had just gained: with soothing words and gentle care. Still clouded from poppy, I must have seemed as soft and yielding as a puppy, and as eager to please. I remember being bundled into a cushion-filled litter and carried through the streets while the man who had purchased me stroked my hair and promised me I had nothing to fear. Once we reached his dwelling, I was taken to the bathhouse and left there with all I needed to prepare myself.

Clearly my master had good taste as well as wealth: the bath was open to the sky and lapis dragons coiled over the tiled walls. The tubs were formed of pale stone, and the soaps and ointments laid out were new, untouched. And there was a choice of scents.

So. I have some choices left. Not many. But some.

I lingered in the bath as long as I dared as the water cooled and the poppy withdrew, leaving my mind all too clear. I prolonged the ritual of combing out my hair and oiling my skin. Every minute I delayed was a small victory, but in the end I must submit. I could only hope what I must endure would not be too degrading, but I knew that whatever happened, I must conceal my disgust. “
Smile,
” Zebbani had told me,
“Smile.” “And if I cannot?”
I had said.
“Shed a few tears—and then smile. Always smile.”

I survived the cutting. This cannot be worse.
I wrapped the thin robe around me and tied the gold-spangled sash tight—as if a silken knot would protect me. Then I pulled the small ivory box from its hiding place and opened it. The gilded pills promised sweet oblivion, turning painful reality into soft dreams. I tipped two of the pills into my hand, lifted my hand to my mouth …

 … and hesitated with the opium already upon my tongue. Yes, opium softened life, but it also weakened body and mind, leaving a man vulnerable.

And I am a man. I
am
.
Yes, a few bits of flesh had been cut away from my body. But I still had my mind and my will.