Hadassah Covenant, The (5 page)

On the surface I felt incredibly happy, even thrilled at all the things I felt coursing through my senses and my heart. Yet deeper down I continued to struggle with feelings of shame and remorse. As I have told you, I knew that I had no choice in the matter, and that my lack of choice absolved me from ultimate guilt. But something about how much I enjoyed this night ignited continued turmoil within me.

Finally, he spoke with the question that nearly became my undoing.

“Leah, what is so special about you? What sort of spell are you weaving about me?”

I laughed at those words and flashed him a meaningful glance through the corners of my eyes.

“Come here,” he said, raising up one arm. So I snuggled in beside him, marveling at the intimacy of his whole skin upon mine, and laid my head upon his shoulder.

And we fell asleep.

I woke up to the sight of his face, shrouded in shadow, raised up and close to mine. Watching me with both passion and tenderness.

“Hello, Leah,” he said in a low voice.

Momentarily startled, I replied. “Hello, Your Majesty.”

He shook his head. “No, please, call me Artaxerxes.”

And that is when the most extraordinary part of the evening began. The King began to talk without prodding, this time about his own history, and when I stopped him with thoughtful questions and observations, he began to open up even further. I learned more about the kingdom of Persia during that brief conversation than anyone could possibly imagine. Esther, your advice in this area of conversation proved more valuable than all my months of training. I became privy to things I really wish I did not know. His voice hardly rose above a whisper, and I couldn’t tell if it was from some abiding fear of being overheard or an inbred caution. But his tone helped create a sense of intimacy around the words we shared. He spoke about being raised by strangers, believing that his mother was dead of natural causes, and then being told during his adolescence that she had been ordered murdered by his
own father
. He described the layers of jealousy and intrigue that existed between him and his brothers, most notably Darius II, the eldest and first in line to the throne, who had hoped to rule like his namesake grandfather.

Upon mentioning that name, he began to weep. And that is when I made my mistake.

I reached out to comfort him, stroked his face, and whispered, “It was not your fault. It was not your fault.”

At once his eyes opened, the tears stopped, and he stared at me.

“What do you mean, not my fault?” he asked suspiciously.

And that is when I realized that I had betrayed knowledge of things unknown to anyone but you and Mordecai. Few in the world knew the truth about Darius’ death.

Inside, my thoughts careened into an avalanche of desperate invention.

“I only meant, Your Majesty—I mean, Artaxerxes—only to soothe your grief. To reassure you that just because you ascended to the throne as a result of blood shed that night, it does not mean you wished it upon anyone.”

My words tumbled over each other and he seemed satisfied, for his expression resumed its previous languid state and his taut muscles relaxed once more. I took note of this heightened sensitivity and realized its danger. Artaxerxes could be like the sea: calm and placid on the surface, but like any other sea, concealing treacherous rocks and shoals. The subjects of ascending to the throne and retaining rulership were clearly dangerous.

I breathed deeply again myself as he began to talk about the frustration of watching long-lost relatives resurface upon his ascension to vie for influence and complicate his life.

Throughout our conversation your name arose often and with great favor. Artaxerxes clearly does think of you as his truest and first mother. I guess you, of all people, would know how to treat an adopted child as a true and loving parent would.

He confessed the awesome strain of satisfying, placating, and defending himself against so many various factions within Persia. The threats to his throne.

At one point he stopped and looked into my eyes again.

“I never thought I would ever share these things with anyone,” he said. “If candor is a result of love, then, Leah, I believe I am falling in love with you.”

I smiled outwardly and trembled inwardly, for I could not forget stories of commoners perishing for their knowledge of such palace intrigues and secrets.

“And I with you, my dear Artaxerxes,” I replied, displaying outward calm in spite of my fears.

Again I experienced that divided, spectatorlike sensation. Was this common? Did Artaxerxes the King say these things to all the concubines? Were these mere words meant to accompany another meaningless night of royal passion?

Despite these misgivings, what frightened me most of all was the growing certainty, deep within me, that his words of affection for me were true!

Yet even that inner spark could not convince me to believe the whispered affirmations. I could live with anything except a broken heart, I knew. I could bear the isolation of the women’s quarters, tolerate the gossip and political backbiting. But to
believe
I was truly
loved and then be ignored—that frightened me. Inwardly I began to harden myself against that possibility, even as outwardly I became more tender. The specter of rejection began to haunt my mind.

We kissed, long and warmly, after which he asked me more about myself. And I told him what was acceptable to tell—of my warm, comfortable upbringing in Susa, my loving parents and one brother. I did not tell him, of course, anything of my Hebrew heritage. Or of the fact that my great-great-grandfather was Jeconiah, the Jewish king and first leader of the Exile, carried as a captive here to this region. Nor of the terror that ransacked my senses when the soldiers seized me by force and whisked me into the palace. Of all the things I withheld from him, the one I felt most keenly at that moment was my familiarity with all things royal because of you, Esther.

Halfway through, I mercifully heard a light snore and allowed myself to fall asleep for a second time.

And then I awoke, as you had described from your own experience, to the slamming open of doors and the whole array of royal aides pouring into the room, oblivious to my presence. I am so glad you told me of this, for without your forewarning, I would have been just as appalled and confused as you were at the sudden end to our intimate tryst.

Furthermore, thanks to your descriptions, I was prepared for the letdown of being escorted back across those huge terraces and returned to the harem. Of course, Jesse and Mordecai awaited me with discreet and respectful inquiries about my evening.

I’m sure I looked as embarrassed as I felt as I hinted to them I might be their next queen. The two deflected glances to each other and shrugged to pass off the comment. Yet I felt my fear suddenly leave me; I knew the truth of what had transpired that night with the King. He loved me, of this I was certain. While my head did fear, my heart felt the truth of what had transpired that night.

So, my beloved Esther, we come to the one thing for which your cherished letter did not prepare me—nor could it have. The arrival of Mordecai on the fourth morning after my night with the King, a stricken and unhealthy pall upon his face. He sat beside me and informed me, in a level and grave voice, that I had been summarily rejected as queen.

The chill of my fear returned like a vengeful flood. I really have no idea what to do, which is why I await your response, my dear Queen Esther . . .

M
OSSAD
H
EADQUARTERS
, B
AGHDAD—LATER THAT AFTERNOON

Meyer backed up abruptly and knocked over his stool with a clatter.

For a long moment, he simply stood and stared at the last two words of his translation, then back at the Hebrew letters signifying the name and title.

Queen Esther
!

His mind began to connect the dots. To run across the name
Esther
, a derivative of the Mesopotamian goddess
Ishtar
, could be coincidental, even within the Royal Records. But
Queen
Esther?

Without moving his gaze from the manuscript, he reached over to the desk’s edge and fumbled for the phone amidst the jumble of papers and personal effects.

He should have seen it coming. Hints at the royal personage to whom the letter was addressed lay scattered throughout the document. But to find these comments, along with references to the Exilarch, ruler of the Jews in exile, on the same page together—it took his breath away.

He tried to calm the heaving of his chest and slow the frantic darting of his eyes but found his shock simply too powerful to suppress. He had to get out of there, he told himself, but without arousing suspicion. He knew that cameras and monitoring devices were everywhere—far more than what was needed to merely protect him. And the multitude of cameras he could detect were only a fraction of the total.

He made himself look away from the two documents on the desk and glanced around him again, as though someone might have
sneaked in behind him during the preceding seconds. Frowning, he picked up the phone as casually as he could, yanked off his skullcap, and exited the room through a back door. He returned a moment later carrying a case, into which he slid the documents with a studied casualness, then left for good.

The only observer of his exit was an old street beggar who had taken up permanent residence in the alley. The rag-swathed body did not budge from its grimy crossed-legged position on the ground, but its oddly young eyes locked on to Ari’s immediately, far more alert than an old man’s drunken gaze should have been.

Ari nodded and, after a moment’s flicker of recognition, so did the “beggar.” Ari turned away from the safehouse’s outermost and most cunningly disguised security layer, then launched himself into the street.

A wild blend of car horns, racing engines, and human shouts engulfed him at once. Without expression, the bearded “Osborn” elbowed his way through the Arab crowd to his car, a carefully disheveled Toyota truck, placed the case on the seat, started the engine with a long crank of the key, slammed it into gear, and sped into the streets of southern Baghdad like the proverbial drunken sheikh.

Through the crowded, claustrophobic lanes of the southern Aalam district he raced, crazily fighting a combination of shock, relief, and panic. He weaved and ducked into a side street, peering anxiously into his rearview mirror to make sure he was not being followed, finally south onto the broad lanes of Yafa Street, then into the lawns of Zawra Park, Baghdad’s largest greenbelt.

There, barely twenty yards out of the cloverleaf that marked the park’s entrance, he saw what he needed. He swerved over and brought the truck to a screeching halt. In a second the door slammed and locked, and he was out, crossing the grass with long strides and holding the phone back up to his ear. He looked around him, saw no one paying any attention, and took a deep breath.

Finally, a place he knew to be safe from electronic eavesdropping—from either side.

He dialed and spoke one word into the phone, low but strong.

For a minute, Osborn’s eyes danced along with the cadence of the
beeps and whistles rushing past his ear. Then he began to speak in a breathless rant.

“No, Father—I’m in Baghdad. Everything’s fine. Except—and this is why I’m calling you—I’ve found something big. No, not even that. It’s bigger, it’s the motherlode, a two in one. Both of the pieces we’ve been searching for, praying for, in a single haul.”

He waited while a deep, ponderous voice spoke quickly through the earpiece.

“Yes. You guessed it. I think it’s authentic. It’ll take the lab in Jerusalem to confirm it for certain, and maybe a comparison. All I had was a quick pass with my makeshift infrared.”

He paused and turned around to make sure he was still far from the nearest park stroller.

“That’s right. Hadassah, and the Exilarch bloodline, together. Our guesses could be validated. The Exilarch
did
start long before Alexander the Great.” He laughed, then sobered quickly. “I
told
you it was the motherlode. I’m nearly one hundred percent sure. But I’ll have to go to her, to validate them. The time has come. And then you’ll be able to go public, except . . . well, you’ve already gone public. But wait. There’s also a bad side to this. Some very bad news, I’m afraid.”