Harvest of Gold (40 page)

He spent half the night awake, his thoughts tortured. He knew one thing. His parents’ rejection hurt worse than bullies and fistfights and swords.

A miserable welcome awaited Darius at the palace. The first person he ran into turned out to be Cambyses. They were alone in a dark hallway. Cambyses was a year older than Darius—having started his training late due to his father’s travels—and half a head taller. Without a word of explanation, he jammed his elbow into Darius’s stomach.

The pain wrapped about Darius with an intensity that robbed his breath. He bent over double, wondering if he was going to die, because hard as he tried, he could not pull any air into his body. When he could finally catch his breath, he straightened, feeling shaky.

Cambyses smirked. “Look at those fat tears swimming in your eyes. How pretty! Are you going to cry? You’re nothing but a baby.”

Darius swallowed the tears. He swallowed the hurt and the rejection. He made a fist, and putting all his weight behind it, he rammed it into Cambyses’ middle. The boy yelled and retched with pain.

Darius felt nothing. Not relief or pride or regret. He liked this separation from his feelings. He flicked his finger against Cambyses’ ear, and with the dispassion of an aloof observer, watched it turn red. As he walked away, he knew he had found a way to make his time at the palace bearable. He would just stop feeling. Every day, he would practice walking away from his feelings until he learned to master them. Until he learned not to be a baby anymore.

Darius raised his head and stared blindly into the horizon. With astonishment, he realized that his cheeks were wet with tears. Over twenty years had passed since those wretched months. And still they had the power to haunt him. To rule him. His life continued to be affected by those devastating separations. Even his marriage was damaged by them. Nehemiah was right. A hole as deep and soot-covered as the foundation of Jerusalem’s wall ran through his heart. And he had no way of repairing it.

Sarah gazed out of the narrow window in the passageway adjoining her chamber, her eyes straining to see into the dark, hoping for a glimpse of Darius. He was so late! Worry gnawed at her. He had left with Nehemiah hours before and had yet to return. No one knew where he was. Unable to remain inside, she grabbed one of the torches in the corridor and walked out to the courtyard. She didn’t dare stray too far from the house unescorted, knowing that Darius would be displeased by the risk she took. Instead, she lingered at the side of the dirt road close to their residence. Something dark and large flew past her face and she gasped, beating at it with a flailing hand. A bat! Her flesh crawled.

Darius, where are you?

Her arm began to ache, and she passed the torch from one hand to another. She wished she could find a comfortable seat, but the roadside was bare. In the distance, she glimpsed a lone figure moving toward her. Sarah took a few slow steps, trying to distinguish the man’s features. Her hesitant steps turned into a lumbering jog, the best she could manage with her protruding stomach, as she recognized Darius’s form. There was something forlorn about the heavy steps, the stooped shoulders, the lowered head.

“Darius!” she cried.

“Sarah?” He sounded dazed. “What are you doing out here?”

“Looking for you. You’ve been gone so long. I grew anxious.” She drew abreast of him and came to a stop. In the torchlight his eyes had a faraway look. His breathing was labored and harsh. Something about his expression made her gasp. “What’s wrong?”

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His throat convulsed and he pressed his lips into a hard line and shook his head.

“Are you sick?”

“No.” His voice was low.

“Did something bad happen? Was someone injured?”

His laughter had a cold edge, like the sound of iron clanging against iron. It sent a chill down her spine. “You don’t wish to confide in me?” she asked, feeling the old hurt lashing at her.

Slowly, he raised a hand. His fingers tangled in her robe and pulled her close. He bent his face and buried it in the side of her neck. Fearful that she might scorch him, she threw the torch on the ground and wrapped her arms around him. She felt something melt in him, and the rigid hold he had on his body began to give. “Just some bad memories I thought I had forgotten.” His voice was muffled against the heat of her flesh.

Sarah stroked his back soothingly. She didn’t know what to say. Darius had never revealed such vulnerability to her. She held him tight as if he were a little boy and tried to comfort him with her presence.

He placed a possessive hand over her abdomen. “He might be a boy.” His voice trembled.

“You would be disappointed if he were?”

“Of course not. But … if he were a boy, he would have to go to the palace school when he turned seven. Like me.”

Sarah sucked in a shocked breath. “I’d forgotten about that.”

“It’s a hard place for a little boy.”

“Perhaps we don’t have to send him.”

He stepped away from her. “If we don’t, he won’t receive the training he needs in order to succeed. He will have a title and riches, but no respect from his peers. We’ll spare him of hardship in his youth. But will he thank us for that, do you think, when he grows into manhood and is treated with disgrace?”

“Why does he need to go to the palace to learn what he needs? You and I can train him. Or hire tutors.”

“You don’t understand, Sarah. The separation is part of the training. He needs to learn endurance. Toughness. Those of us who were sent to the palace that early developed incredible fortitude and strength. I can survive things you couldn’t begin to imagine. But there is a price to pay. It was as if my heart … shrank in those years. I grow sick to think of my son paying such a price.”

Sarah grasped his hand. “We still have some years to think of a solution. Don’t torment yourself with these questions now.”

He hung his head. “I can find no peace. My memories plague me.” He raised his head, and stared straight into her eyes. In the light of the dying torch, the torment in his gaze pierced her soul. “Sarah, will you pray for me? To your God? My mother’s God? Perhaps He can help me.”

^*
Each
parsang
measured approximately four miles.

As Nehemiah began his customary circuit around the perimeter of the city, he was amazed to find that not a single gap remained in the wall. He had not ordered the doors to be hung in the gates yet. The builders were preparing special scaffolding that made it possible for the heavy doors to be set in place. The debris still needed to be removed as well, but they had accomplished the impossible. They had built the wall itself. He barely had a chance to complete that thought when a messenger brought him a missive from Sanballat and Geshem.

When would these men give up? Nehemiah was tired. Tired! He had no patience for their continuous mischief. With an abrupt movement he broke the seal and began to read.

Come, Nehemiah. Let us meet together in one of the villages on the plain of Ono
.

The invitation sounded innocuous, but Nehemiah suspected this was no peace offering. In spite of the fact that the letter sounded like a step toward reaching a new accord, he detected another scheme brewing. Until now, they had tried to harm the wall. The people. Jerusalem. Finally, they had realized that if they could get him out of the way, tearing down the new walls would be a much easier prospect.

Nehemiah ambled to his office in order to write a response. On his way, he noticed how empty Jerusalem remained, its inhabitants refusing to return to the city while it was not fully fortified. Hope thrilled through his veins at the thought of the proliferation of the city. One day soon, the population would explode; merchants and musicians and farmers and fishermen and their children and families would return. All manner of people would enliven the city because it would be safe. The battle for that safety was not over yet. Nehemiah sighed as he pushed the door into his sparse office.

Sarah was leaning against his desk, taking careful note of his accounts.

“I am glad you are here!” he said, feeling cheered by her presence. “Will you act as my scribe and fashion a letter to Sanballat and Geshem?”

Sarah set aside the wet clay tablet she had been working on. “Haven’t they given up yet? What do they want now?”

Nehemiah told her about their message. “Write them the following message,” he said.

I am carrying on an important work and I cannot come down. Why should I cause the work to stop while I go down to meet with you?

He gave a satisfied nod when Sarah read it back to him. “These men are not as important as they think they are,” he said. “I refuse to be sidetracked by their constant interruptions.”

“Do you not worry that the leaders of Judah might take offense at your rudeness in response to what seems like an invitation to restore peace?” Sarah blew on the parchment to speed the drying process. “Many here remain attached to these men.”

Nehemiah shrugged. “I will deal with their objections if they come. I cannot make decisions based on other people’s opinion of me.”