CHAPTER FIVE
Xerxes had known that if he were to avoid a debacle similar to his father’s, he would need the support of all of the provinces. Wars cost money, and then more money. Armies needed men…and then more men. He not only wanted men and money, he wanted their loyalty, and the thumbs up that would give him liberty of action. He had finally decided that the direct approach was best; lay it out as it was, what he wanted, and their part and profit. But, backed by the counsel of the seven, they had decided to proffer their scheme in the midst of a positive environment. In other words, 180 days of party. Free drinks.
And so it happened, triggering the endless parade of dignitaries that wound their way past Mordecai’s small financial office near the palace. All on their way to history’s biggest fling. The kingly pitch had not been in vain, as their efforts, basted in extravagance, had extracted the desired product; all 127 on board. Green flags to the mission. It was so successful that Xerxes felt an odd thing for royalty to feel: gratitude.
His people had worked long and hard to curry favor with every visiting member of the silver spoon set. Commendation was in order. Xerxes had decided on an in-house celebration. The palace would become the week-long site of diversion and reward for those who had worked so diligently. No expense was to be spared. It was a time of celebrating the celebration. The seventh and last day was best, for the best wine would now come out of the vast storehouses of the king. Not that any wine in the king’s court was commonplace, but this would be the likes of which only a few in the kingdom would ever savor. The first of the vineyard’s sweetness pressed and drawn from the choice vine, only after every seed and stem had been removed meticulously so that not even the thought of bitterness found its way into the fermentation. The vine was a variety as old as the land itself. It was the child of the fertile land between the rivers.
The feasting had gone well. Without the scent of political maneuverings and posturing hanging heavy in the air, the way was clear for a truly festive tone. With the further satisfaction of having gained a full hand with which to play his game, Xerxes allowed himself to be wooed by the siren voices of assured success. The savor of such a prospect inebriated his whole spirit more that even the red drought in his chalice. The conversation amongst those in attendance had focused increasingly each day on the anticipated endeavor.
In another courtly setting nearby, the women belonging to the plotters and schemers of the above paragraph were being similarly treated to a week of sumptuous fare. They spent the week generally clustering and clucking about the queen, who relished this opportunity to bask in the giddy light of preeminence. Though her guests were solely from the ranks of the beautiful of Shushan, it was an unchallenged fact that Vashti was queen in that arena also.
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WARNING TO READERS (I felt making that plural was actually a fairly significant act of faith): the following is a short break for musing, otherwise known as a:
COMPLETELY UNVERIFIABLE POINT OF VIEW
The ironic curse of natural beauty is that sometimes those to whom that gift is dispensed are inwardly convinced they have managed a massive hoax. They view the barrage of adoration to be largely feigned and are secretly convinced of their undesirability. The great guitarist Chet Atkins was leaving the stage to the sounds of a ‘standing o’ applause one evening after a stunning performance. Making his way backstage, he commented to his colleague “fooled ‘em again”. Though in his case it was probably just another shot of Tennessee grinin’ after the pickin,’ often the naturally gifted slide into real mires of depression. The price of the pursuit of perfection too often is the irresistible pitfall of an ever-increasing focus on the remaining fault and lack instead of appreciation for progress made and goals accomplished. It may have been rough being around Va-Va-Voom Vashti; though she held top slot for the moment, she never enjoyed it. There was the uncomfortable awareness that, like an unfaithful lover, beauty would steal away from her to visit another and eventually leave her discarded like shriveled roses from last week’s table adornment. Curious it is that those whose rose garden is on the inside, only grow in beauty with time’s passing. The gates sag and fence slats lose their symmetry, but the fragrance from within overwhelms the most stalwart of critics leaving the compelling desire for increased exposure.
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It was precisely at this juncture that some mischief-laden imp slipped into the realms of the terrestrial. He drifted undetected like an afternoon shadow that briefly scurries across the floor and moves on. His whispers were so subdued that in the noise of happy drinkers and the euphoria of anticipated futures, his deviousness escaped all discernment. The time was right and his seeds sown. It began as a lighthearted request, but caught fire quickly. “Bring before us the most beautiful woman in the most powerful kingdom on earth!” Ahasuerus was only too happy to display his greatest trophy. And so it was that a messenger was sent across the palace to the ‘other’ feast………
“It’s sooo typical and mooore boring!” Zeresh set her a chalice down on the table harder than called for, and thus sent a little of King’s best airborne. “It’s your life baby, but I’m telling you Vashti, every time a number like this comes along and we just smile daintily and lick dust, the monster grows stronger”. The cup started the steep ascent to rendezvous once again with the tense lips. “If Hamaan were to try that sewage with me, he better make arrangements to stay in Greece.
“ I see it perfectly, dear Zeresh, and you know how much I esteem your counsel,” the younger queen leaned toward her companion, warmed in soul by zeal, warmed in body by the same wine that Zeresh was coaxing out of her large cup, “but he can be so stubborn when caught off guard,” she finished in a lowered voice. She nervously rolled a large olive around the circumference of the plate in front of her.
“Who would ever disagree with that?” the elder woman snapped back. “But I think I know MEN enough to say that your beauty has the wild bull hobbled, and there is no rival that could keep a king’s heart from calling after you for more than a night.”
There was a pivotal lull in their conversation. The olive continued its journey. Then, as though discarding some tasteless garment, Vashti with the royal lips tightened in resolve, lifted herself from her inclined posture towards Zeresh. She exhaled with a finality impassioned with creation-old frustration and seven year old wine. “Whatever happens Zeresh, don’t abandon me in this…”
“No way ever, ever!” The older woman demonstrated a little fire of her own. Decision made, the queen called for the king’s messenger who waited to accompany her down the palace corridor to the king’s banqueting hall.
“Arphad, your soldierly demeanor just dribbled to the floor; kindly salvage it and just go tell him that I’m not coming!” Vashti peered in amusement at the befuddled guard’s gapping mouth. He made an attempt at ironing the shock from his face and posture.
“But your highness, I…”
“Don’t worry, just go and relay your message” she repeated as the olive jumped track and headed down the table on its way to the floor.
As he made his way out of the hall, Arphad was uncomfortably aware of the scrutiny he suddenly found himself under as he exited. The hall was very quiet adding to his confusion. Each step away from bewilderment led him closer to fear. The king was not going to enjoy the tidings that Arphad now bore. In fact, though it certainly had nothing to do with him, the guard hoped that he did not end up the recipient of wrath’s first lash. Royal ire was known to turn a blind eye to justice. Actually, they were often complete strangers.
Ahasuerus processed the information rather haltingly as the plausible explanations took turns racing through the royal awareness: a ruse, a communication error, too much wine, but nothing seemed to lend credibility to what this guard was telling him. Arphad knew better than to trifle; the wine was good, but he still had his wits about him; he must have heard incorrectly.
“Tell me again what message the queen has sent with you,” his puzzlement had added a few notches to his volume. This in turn had the direct affect of ushering in a silence that Arphad had dreaded. He now had to be the bearer of humiliation to the royal pride, heightened in direct proportion to each inclined ear. The king’s intensity allowed no time for reflection and decision.
“Sire, the queen refuses to enter this hall,” Arphad tried to direct his words with such accuracy that only the king would hear them, but imagined or not, his voice was reverberating off every surface in the room. Nobody liked bearers of bad tidings; humiliating bad tidings were even worse. The guard could feel sweat running down his side. As all present assimilated the shockwave and awaited the unleashing of hell’s wrath, Memucan suddenly pushed his dignitary-sized paunch right between the guard and the king. Arphad silently blessed the balding head that now blocked royalty’s eyes and began slipping as unnoticed as possible into the background. He silently prayed that there would be no more demands for his part in this brief drama. It looked good. Whatever Memucan had going, it was dynamic enough that the king was satisfied to listen, providing the ground cover the heavily perspiring guard needed as he left the hall and headed anywhere. He traversed the entire length of the mosaic-tiled floor before he even realized that he had stepped on an olive somewhere.
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