I pulled a jar of cold wax and the strips of cloth that went with it out of my pile. Thanks to the enthusiasm of my companions
the night before, I could now identify most of the objects Damaspia had sent me, though I still had no clear understanding of how to use them.
I decided to try some wax on my leg. A sticky goop reminiscent of honey sat on my skin in an uncooperative lump. I spread it about a little and stuck a strip of linen fabric on top. Then I pulled hard. I yelped with surprise at the stinging pain. How did women do this with such regularity?
I hadn’t done it properly, obviously, for my leg had only yielded some of its stubborn hair while others clung tenaciously to their roots. A couple of more attempts and I gave up with disgust. I had become a sticky mess and not lost much hair for my painful trouble. Frustrated, I set the wax aside. Darius Passargadae would have to deal with a hairy bride, God help him. I had no sympathy for his hardship.
Without enthusiasm, I grabbed a few jars of cream and skin treatment and went off to arrange for a bath and stayed in the water until it grew cold. I had never been covered with the scent of so many different perfumes. My hair smelled of jasmine, my skin like roses and fresh lime, and my breath reeked with the strong odor of mint. I felt like a giant bowl of fruit and flowers. I hoped my bridegroom would appreciate all this finery; I was giving myself a headache.
The queen expected me to curl my hair, no doubt, and I wrapped my wet hair into strips of cloth. It occurred to me that I should have done this the previous evening for my hair, which was thick and straight, would never be dry by late afternoon.
I remembered that the dress still needed to be loosened on top, but when I examined the fabric I saw that the seams had no room. I would have to wear it as it was, with the front gaping in a wide crisscross of fabric that showed a large expanse
of my homespun, cotton under tunic. There was no time to do laundry and I only had two garments left that could serve. One was old and faded and looked even more decrepit peeping beneath the exquisitely woven blue silk. The other was respectable enough, and I put it on to ensure that it provided the right fit under my wedding dress. I decided that it would have to do.
The grumbling of my stomach reminded me that I had not eaten anything since the previous morning and with some relief I abandoned my preparations to go in search of food. Fifteen thousand people, including the king’s soldiers, were fed daily in Persepolis. It was said that a thousand animals were killed each day to feed the appetite of so many. Yet there was hardly any food to be found in the deserted servants’ kitchen. After scrounging, I found a large batch of thick herb soup with soft wheat noodles, which someone had uncharacteristically left to one side. Pouring some in a bowl, I managed to sneak back to my room without being seen.
The first spoonful almost made my eyes cross; enough garlic had been put into that soup to make a herd of wild horses faint. No wonder they had abandoned it in the kitchen. I decided that I was too hungry to care. To my horror, I landed a full spoon of the soup on my good tunic, which I still wore. In spite of my best efforts I could not get the stain out, for the soup had been seasoned with turmeric and its stubborn yellow tint clung to the fabric right in the middle of my chest.
Now I had two choices to wear under my wedding dress: an old faded tunic frayed at the edges or one stained with soup. I chose the old one. With shock I realized that I had very little time before I would be fetched for the wedding feast.
Frantically, I pulled the rags out of my hair; as I had feared, it was still too wet to hold anything like a wave. I grabbed the
curled hairpiece Damaspia had provided and stuck the comb into my head. Wigs were all the rage in the empire; each one cost so much that owners were required to pay a special tax to the government for the privilege of having one. In spite of its value, this one did not sit right on my head. Wavy false hair mixed in with my own wet straight tresses, looking oddly out of place.
The appropriate application of cosmetics hardly seemed relevant in the greater scheme of my troubles. I went through the motions for the sake of the queen’s command, but my heart was filled with defiance.
I covered my face with white powder. A filigreed silver amphora held freshly made kohl, which I applied to my brown eyes with an unsteady hand. There was a red pot for my cheeks and another for my lips; these I applied with faint hope that I put the right one on the appropriate feature.
When I had finished using every single luxurious item sent by Damaspia, I examined myself in the mirror and gasped.
I looked hideous.
I had used too much white powder, and against my strong, never plucked eyebrows, which joined in the middle of my forehead, the feigned whiteness of color overlaying my skin made me look more like a corpse than a living woman.
The way I had applied kohl to my eyes made me look like a loser after a serious fight. With some discomfort, I began to realize why Persian women removed excess hair, for my downy mustache sat atop my unnaturally red lips like an insect over a ripe berry. The image in the mirror squeezed every last drop of bravado and defiance out of me.
Before I could wipe my face, one of Damaspia’s ladies in waiting rushed into my room.
“Where have you been? Everyone has already assembled—!
Oh great, holy fires, what have you done to yourself?”
“I—I was about to clean my face and start again.”
“There is no time!” she wailed.
“Won’t you please help me?” I begged, taking a step toward her, finally panicking at the thought of the disgrace that surely awaited me.
She lifted a hand to her mouth and nose. “What have you been doing, chewing on raw garlic all morning? Your breath reeks!”
I slapped a hand in front of my mouth. “What do I do?”
“There is no time,” she said again. “You already run the risk of offending the queen, not to mention Lord Vivan and his son by tarrying so long. Quickly, put on your robe and let us go.”
Later I would think of that moment—of my decision to obey her—with great regret. Obedience to palace protocol had been drummed into my head for three years, so I fell in with her command too easily. For her part, she must have been thinking of the fulfillment of her duty, which was simply the punctual delivery of the bride to the wedding feast. Taking the paint off my face would have consumed a good bit of time; we would have arrived late. Yet looking back, I am certain that my tardiness would have been less offensive to the queen and to Lord Vivan than my current appearance. I suspect, however, that the handmaiden was panicked over the thought of not performing the duty assigned to her. Not that her decision saved her from recriminations later. I would not be surprised if Damaspia took her to task for delivering me to the feast looking as I did. We both miscalculated.
We walked through the long corridors of the women’s quarters and made our way toward the Gate Tower, leading into the Processional Way. The wedding feast was to be held in the Throne Hall, a majestic structure recently completed by
Artaxerxes, which stood at the end of the Processional Way. But the wedding ceremony itself was to be more private, located in a smaller assembly room to the east of the Throne Hall.
Caught in a dream-like trance, I hardly noticed the splendor that passed before my eyes as I ran. The queen’s handmaiden pulled me behind her, forcing me to keep up with her hurried steps, the clicking of our heels echoing on the stone floors. And then with an awkward turn we arrived.
Persian weddings required the bridegroom and close family and friends to arrive first. The bride entered the room when everyone had already gathered, and she sat next to her betrothed at the head of the room where a pavilion was set up under a delicate overhang of fabric. Before them was laid a number of exquisitely decorated items, each bearing a symbolic significance: a large loaf of flat bread, cut in half; wheat and barley painted and decorated into patterns on a silver tray; honey and sweets; mirror and candelabra.
I was to enter the room and process under everyone’s watchful eye and take my seat next to my bridegroom now. Though I had known all this, I was unprepared for the force of everyone’s gaze as they turned to study me when the queen’s handmaiden shoved me into the room and disappeared.
I heard the twitters before I was able to concentrate enough to see faces. The scene that greeted me made me lose my power to move: strangers covering laughter behind raised hands; Damaspia looking outraged; Nehemiah’s mouth open with utter shock; my father, head bowed, hands trembling. And then I saw him—my bridegroom. Instantly, I recognized the vivid green eyes, the molded face, the broad shoulders. Darius Passargadae was none other than my lion hunter.
For a fraction of a moment I saw a myriad of expressions flash over his face. Perplexity. Shock. Embarrassment. Betrayal.
Wrath. Then suddenly it was as if he pulled a veil over his features. His face became inscrutable, a stony mask that gave nothing away. I noticed several young men, his friends presumably, trying to hold in snickers, and failing.
The last of my defiance vanished as I realized how I had demeaned him in my foolishness. An avalanche of shame and regret covered me with such force, I almost cried out. I turned to leave, to run away from this devastating disgrace, to free Darius Passargadae from the humiliation I had brought upon him.
An iron hand closed about my wrist. To my amazement I found that it was the king himself who held me in his grip. With the added height of his
kidaris
, the gold-fluted crown of royalty on his head, he towered over me like a giant.
He smiled at me with mild amusement and bent close to whisper in my ear so that only I could hear, “I don’t know what you are about, girl. But you must finish what you started. You will shame him more if you run now.”
I managed to jerk my head into a nod.
He did not release his hold on my hand but held it—a rare sign of astounding royal favor—and led me to the wedding pavilion himself. That right hand, famously longer than the left through a tragic defect of birth, remained near me like a protective shield until I stood before my bridegroom. Then Artaxerxes placed my hands into Darius’s and helped me sit on my stool.
No one laughed now. The king lifted an eyebrow toward my hands, lying limp and cold in Darius’s rigid hold, and nodded at Darius. Belatedly, my betrothed remembered to lift my hands to his lips for a kiss that touched the air above my skin, stopping short of touching my flesh. No one perceived his icy rebuff save me and perhaps the king; to the casual observer
the required customary welcome kiss had been performed.
At the king’s signal, the ceremony began. Does any bride remember the details of her wedding? I know not. I only know that for me that night is covered as by fog. I remember the moment we fed one another of the bread, signifying our union, remember his mouth opening for the morsel, which I placed there with trembling fingers; I remember him swallowing without chewing, as though he tried to get rid of bitter poison best taken untasted. Then the magi’s blessing and the bowl of honey was lifted before us, and again I saw to my astonishment that it was the king’s hand that held it.
My husband dipped his little finger into the bowl and I followed suit, imitating him in a mindless haze. And there was the taste of honey on my lips—a symbol of the sweetness of our lives together. I made the mistake of looking into his eyes for a fleeting moment and almost choked as the impassive curtain lifted, replaced by a flash of loathing so hot, I thought my heart would melt.
“Now you,” the king hissed in my ear, reminding me that I must reciprocate my husband’s actions by feeding him honey with my fingers. Anxious lest he should scorn me before the guests, my fingers shook as I lifted them to his mouth. But he hid himself behind his stony expression once more and licked the honey so quickly that I barely felt his touch. The king expelled a long breath as this last part of the ceremony concluded.
Apparently we were to have an unusual wedding in every way, for Artaxerxes, a committed follower of the Persian deity Ahura Mazda, called upon Nehemiah to speak the blessing of the Lord over us. In a peripheral corner of my mind I was aware that by this public acknowledgment, the king had placed his seal of approval upon my husband’s choice of a Jewish
bride, and by extension, upon me. Nehemiah came forward and blessed us first in Hebrew and then in Persian. My eyes pricked with unwanted tears as he began with Solomon’s tender words:
I am my beloved’s and he is mine
.
I felt utterly bereft in that moment; bereft of my father’s protection, of my queen’s esteem, of Nehemiah’s friendship, of my dearest dreams. I thought, not without considerable irony, that perhaps the only other person in that room who understood even a fraction of my internal turmoil was my husband.
Darius and I rose up to stand side by side, careful not to touch, awaiting the customary congratulations that tarried awkwardly. Again the king took matters into his hands and embraced my husband with open warmth. From the corner of my eye I saw a man barreling toward me. There was no mistaking his identity for his features bore a remarkable resemblance to my husband’s. His eyes, though, were a powdery blue instead of green, and his skin had the fair coloring of his for-bearers. I took an unconscious step to the side as I registered the outrage boiling to the surface of Lord Vivan’s countenance. Unlike his son, he either had no talent or no desire to hide it.