Harvest of Rubies (5 page)

The months melted into years while I remained occupied with my vocation. After three years of service to the queen, the
court became my whole life. I was certain—that like my father—I was meant to be a scribe until I grew old. I was certain that I would serve the queen for years to come. I was certain. But I was wrong.

^*
449 BC

I
never thought a day would come when almost being devoured by a lion would be the least of my problems.

I had snuck out of the gilded walls of the palace, the normal bustle of the queen’s quarters having become too much for my benumbed mind, and taken refuge on my favorite hill. Even after three years of working for the queen, I had precious few occasions for solitude. I was an oddity in the court, a woman doing a job normally given to eunuchs. To prove to the queen that I was worthy of this unusual privilege, I spent every waking moment at work and allowed myself few opportunities for leisure.

Though I paid the price for the demands of my post with
a willing heart, there were moments when I grew desperate for rest. On such days I would slip out for a solitary walk on what I had come to think of as
my
hill.

Far from being a majestic spot, the hill looked like something God had heaved up as an afterthought—low, squat, and neglected—unworthy of attention in a place as glorious as Persepolis. Perhaps God had molded me from the same dust, for I too was short and round, unimpressive and overlooked.

It was a hot day for that time of year; we were only fifteen days past the Persian New Year, which was celebrated on the first day of spring. Yellow and white narcissus grew in bunches around me, waving in the lazy breeze. Under the warmth of the sun, the tensions of the week began to drain out of me. I had brought a large roll of flat wheat bread, liberally spread with creamy butter and sweet grape jelly, one of my favorite repasts. Munching slowly on my meal, I leaned back against an elbow, considering the merits of a short nap.

The sound of pounding hooves made me snap my half-closed eyes open. The horse, a pure black, thundered across the terrain, heedless of rocks and debris. I could not see the rider’s face, though he was near enough for me to make out the aristocratic linen tunic, the bejeweled belt, the soldier’s bearing.

I shot up with an abrupt lack of grace, realizing that he was on a collision path with me. He saw me and slowed his horse, but continued to trot until he was almost on top of me.

Having lived for years in the palaces of the king of Persia had taught me to recognize rank. I bowed and stood again to study him with silent curiosity.

His dark hair, though long and waved in the fashion of the court, was not bewigged or over-coiffed. Eyes the color of the lush forests of Ecbatana stared at me through a ring of thick lashes. I had never seen a man with such disconcerting beauty.

“I take it you haven’t seen a lion?” he asked.

For a moment I was struck dumb. Speaking to young, handsome noblemen was not a common occurrence in my world. But being faced with one who began his conversation with such an unusual—one might even say ridiculous—question, was downright confounding. Wild animals were routinely imported for royal hunts, but they were kept in well-maintained hunting grounds and were not allowed to roam the countryside, terrorizing the natives.

“Have you lost one, my lord?” I asked, trying not to smirk.

One dark eyebrow arched a fraction. “In a manner of speaking.”

“They generally don’t come here,” I said, and refrained from adding that he should try the royal hunting grounds as most sane men would.

“The hunt started in the royal enclosure,” he said, as though reading my thoughts. “Then the beast seemed to vanish into air. Everyone else is still in the park looking for him. But I followed his tracks here.”

I looked about me casually, not worried that I might come across an actual lion. “I’ve seen no sign of him.”

He dismounted and began to examine the ground with minute attention. Straightening, he shook the dust off his hands. “Well, he was here, and not too long ago.”

Not wanting to sound skeptical of his hunting prowess, I held my peace. We stood in silence surveying the landscape, I in one direction and he in another.

Suddenly he hissed, “Don’t move!”

I froze at the urgency in his tone. My mouth grew dry as with perfect incomprehension I saw him reach for his bow and arrow. What was happening? Was he planning to shoot me? Persian men were legendary for the accuracy of their marksmanship. He
could have skewered me with ease from ten times this distance; this close, he was not likely to miss if he wished me dead.

“Don’t move,” he said again, his voice a gentle whisper.

A soft rustle low to the ground behind me caused me to hold my breath. For the first time I began to believe that a lion had truly managed to get itself loose from the well-guarded hunting grounds, which did not make my situation any more secure. Instead of being murdered by a sharpshooting courtier, I was about to become the noonday meal of a ferocious animal.

Too close behind me I heard a roar so fierce, I almost toppled over with terror. How I managed to hold still, I shall never know, but it saved my life. Within a moment the whoosh of an arrow passed within a finger’s breadth of my cheek and then I heard another roar followed by a crash. The first arrow had barely been loosed when the rider had a second notched into his bow.

Frozen to the spot, I stayed unmoving, even when he lowered his weapon, indicating that the danger was past.

“I found my lion.” In my frazzled state I managed to notice that his voice remained cool as he spoke, as if he had pet a kitten rather than confronted a menacing feline.

“How fortuitous for me,” I said through dry lips.

“Don’t you want to see him?”

For a moment I could not find my voice; fighting nausea, I staggered to the ground. Could he not tell that I was too busy having an attack of the heart to admire his skill?

He hunkered down and studied me. This close I saw that the symmetry of his face was even more stunning than I first had thought, magnified by the unusual contrast between his bright green eyes and olive skin. In those unusual eyes I was surprised to find kindness.

“I thought you very brave. You hardly flinched.”

“That’s because I didn’t believe there was a lion behind me,” I blurted.

He laughed, revealing a white smile marred only by the overlap of one crooked tooth. The sight of that blemish brought me relief somehow. It made him more human.

“You thought I had been in the sun too long.”

“I thought you had a gourd for a brain and the skills of a sparrow in tracking game.” Almost being killed had clearly affected my sanity. Even in the best of times I had a tendency to speak with unwise forthrightness, but this was ridiculous. I covered my mouth with my hand.

He stood with a slow flexing of athletic limbs. I noticed to my relief that his smile did not fade. “You are very forward for a servant.”

I forced myself to my feet. “I beg your pardon, my lord.”

It was unwise to offend the nobility, and I had managed to do it with stupendous success. Hoping to cover my rudeness by some empty flattery, I put on my best fawning expression and said, “You are an extraordinary hunter.” Even to myself I sounded insincere.

His smile disappeared. It was like seeing a mask settle over his face. His cold expression confused me. He had been welcoming and kind when I had been offensive. But in the face of my compliments, he acted with icy disgust, as though I had soiled his shining shoes.

Perceiving the change and concerned that I had indeed antagonized him, I turned around to find more fodder for my desperate praise. The sight of the massive carcass not five steps behind me brought the gears of my mind to a crashing halt. My vacuous comments turned into sincerity. “You saved my life,” I said with a catch in my throat. “It would have killed me if not for you.”

“How kind of you to notice.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

I tried again. “I am grateful for your marvelous skills, my lord.”

He flicked a hand as though swatting at a fly. “This flattery will avail you nothing, and it only bores me.”

“But I am sincere!”

“Of course. Now that we have established your pure motives perhaps you would be so kind as to offer me your assistance?”

I finally understood that while he had not cared about my earlier rudeness, he found my flattery distasteful. I hadn’t offended him by comparing him to a sparrow; he was annoyed that I had called him a great hunter in order to coax his favor. That one brief indiscretion had lost me his respect.

I had started my words with flattery; he was right to suspect me of it. However, I could not have been more sincere once I saw how close to death I had come.

He was a stranger to me; even his name remained a mystery. Why should I care for his opinion of me? Yet care, I did.

It was clear that he had no patience for my explanations. Swallowing my pride, I asked, “How may I help, my lord?”

“Send me two guards from the palace. I cannot carry this beast down by myself.”

I bowed, one hand on my heart. “As you command. And, my lord? I do thank you for saving my life. It may not seem like much to you, but it is all I have.”

He turned his back to examine his prey. “You will not last long in Persepolis with that mouth,” he predicted with cool detachment, and I knew myself dismissed. For a moment longer I tarried there, staring at that broad back. Something in me—some strange unknown longing—stirred at the sight. Illogically,
my heart constricted at the knowledge that this would be the last time I would ever see him.

I walked back into a storm. Barely had my feet touched the marble floors of the queen’s apartments when one of her handmaidens grasped me about the arm.

“Where have you been? The queen has asked for you a dozen times.”

I frowned, irritated by the handmaiden’s inquisition. “I had an engagement with a lion.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Where is Her Majesty?”

Queen Damaspia was not in the habit of calling me unexpectedly. On most days, my life worked on a schedule as exact as the rising of the sun. Once a week, I met with the queen to help manage her vast personal holdings. Outside of these pre-established appointments, she showed no interest in me. I accomplished most of my work in the confines of my airless office or amongst the records of the queen’s library—far from the glamour of the court.

As I walked to Her Majesty’s inner sanctum, I grew increasingly uneasy about this urgent summons. Had I made an error? A grave mistake that had displeased her? Was this the disapproval I had been dreading? If so, I would have preferred the mouth of that wild lion. My head began to pound.

I found Damaspia pacing about her bedchamber. The flowing hem of her garments, made of endless lengths of lavender silk, dragged on the floor behind her like the tail feathers of an exotic bird. Before I had a chance to bow with sufficient humility, she dismissed her attendants. I studied her from beneath
lowered lashes, trying to guess her mood.

“Read,” she commanded, pointing me to a clay tablet. With considerable relief I saw that it had not been prepared by me. Not my mistake, at any rate.

I looked at the seal and found that it belonged to the queen mother.

Amestris.

More alarming stories about that lady haunted the palace walls than any other member of the royalty. Her intrigues and political machinations excited more rumor than all the governors of the empire put together.

Whether the queen believed the worst of the rumors, or entertained her own reasons, my lady could not forbear the sight of her fierce mother-in-law.

I began to examine the tablet with care, trying to put behind me the terror of the morning, which had robbed me of my equilibrium. The record spelled out an official complaint against a man named Frada, a steward in charge of considerable royal holdings. I did not need to read further to know the exact extent of his duties; I was already familiar with them.