Jewel of Persia

Amestris cursed, cursed again. Better anger than despair. Better vile words than hot tears. Failure again. A loyal servant dead instead of a faithless husband. And

saved by whom? The hand of a Jew.

She spun, then seethed to a halt and looked out into the gardens where Artaxerxes frolicked. Patience was called for. Patience and perseverance. She would wait for Haman to

thrust the Jews from the king’s favor. She would bide her time, woo the right men. The ones who could succeed where Bigthan failed.

Then Ahura Mazda would finally rule. Through her chosen son . . . and through her.





Forty-Six



Five years later, in the first month of the twelfth year of the reign of Xerxes



Esther scanned the gardens for her daughter and tamped down a grin when she saw Zillah urging her into the fountain. Her Amani—could she possibly be three already?—dipped

one toe in the water and shrieked. Six-year-old Zillah laughed and plunged in until the water reached her knees.

So like Kasia and her, only these two truly were sisters. Whoever would have guessed at such a future?

Kasia settled at Esther’s side with a moan, one hand on her swollen stomach. Child number four would join them any day. Any hour, if Esther correctly interpreted the

tension that crossed Kasia’s face. Her friend grimaced and rubbed at her side. “I feel as though one wrong move and I will rip in two.”

Esther chuckled. “I recall that feeling.” She had hoped to experience it again by now, but Xerxes called her so rarely lately . . . not surprising. Whenever Kasia grew

large, he could think of no one else. Perhaps it was because his worry overwhelmed him. Or perhaps it was because that was when Kasia was too tired to insist he pay

attention to the rest of them.

She suspected the latter.

Esther touched her shoulder to Kasia’s. “You look exhausted. Nightmares again?”

Kasia shuddered. “I know not why they plague me in my last weeks of pregnancy. Every time I sleep, I am back on the wall at Sardis, watching the darkness descend. Hearing

the scream behind me, smelling that blasted scent, feeling the push.”

Esther could only shake her head as Kasia craned around to note where her sons scampered. The elder of the boys, Artarius, led two-year-old Arsames in a game of chase. “Do

you have any idea who . . . ?”

Kasia’s mouth tightened. “None that Xerxes will entertain. But I have my suspicions.” She looked up at the wall.

Esther followed her gaze. A chill swept her spine when she spotted their husband’s closest friend. It was no secret Haman was an enemy of the Jews. But exactly how far

would that hatred take him? She could only hope the king was right to believe him trustworthy.

Doubt eclipsed the hope every time she saw him.

*

Haman clasped his hands behind his back and looked out over Susa. The morning sun bathed him in light. Each degree it crept higher, each increase in heat made the secrets of

his heart burn hotter.

It was time. He had waited so long, patient and polite. Done the king’s bidding, carried out his wishes even before he could ask him. Finally, finally he had been given his

due. Elevated even above the princes. A week ago he had dined at a feast in his honor. Everywhere he went, the palace servants bowed to him.

All except one. Haman glanced toward the gate where the Jew always sat. Obstinate and rebellious. He knew the king had a fondness for the swine, but he was done waiting for

the affection to fail.

It was time to force matters. And he knew exactly where to start—the Jewess witch. From there, it would be easy enough to obliterate her entire people.

The very thought made him smile.

*

There ought to have been pain. Kasia felt every muscle coil, every ounce of strength focus on the next push. She could feel the pressure, the way the babe within her inched

closer to life.

Why was there no pain? There had been pain with Zillah. With Artarius and Arsames. Even with each child she lost in the first years of her marriage.

But this . . . it was too like the time in Sardis. The time when Mordecai had prayed her agony onto himself so that she might survive it. The time when her child had been

born lifeless and she had nearly joined him in the bosom of Abraham.

Sardis. Why did everything remind her of Sardis?

Something was wrong, and fear of it shook her, from sweat-soaked brow to curled toes. “Pray.” The command croaked out, rasped, but she knew Desma heard. Not just the word,

but the desperation.

Her maid’s brow furrowed. “Mistress, what is it? Everything is well.”

“No. No, it is not. I cannot . . . there is no . . .” More tension, more pressure. She squeezed her eyes shut. Why did Jehovah take the sensation from her again? She was

not injured, not weak. She could handle it. She could . . .

The tension eased. Leda caught the babe, shouted, “A girl! Another beautiful daughter, mistress. Two of each now.”