Harvest of Gold (28 page)

The old man walked stiffly to the door. “You understand nothing, my lord.” Pulling the door open, he walked out before Meres, who was standing guard, had a chance to come to attention.

Darius stood for a silent moment and gazed at the empty hallway, the sound of Zikir’s fading steps echoing around him. Controlling the urge to kick the door, he closed it with a soft movement. The Babylonian brothers had come out of their hiding and were standing at attention when he turned around.

“Why did you not come out to confront Zikir?” he asked Nassir, his voice soft. He had learned that trick from his father. The deeper his anger, the harder his control.

Nassir’s face grew a shade whiter. “Because he was not the man who commissioned me.”

Darius’s eyes narrowed. For the first time he began to genuinely doubt Nassir’s honesty. “You lie. You lie in order to protect your employer.”

“I swear to you, my lord, I speak the truth. This is not the man who hired me. His voice is different.”

“He put on an accent and a false voice when he engaged you!”

“The tone of his voice is too old. He could not have made himself sound younger, could he? He is too short. I tell you, you have the wrong man, my lord. It cannot be him just because you want it to be so.”

Darius took a deep breath. “As it so happens, I do not want it to be so. But everything points to him. Everything except your finger!”

Nassir wiped his sweating brow with a hand that trembled. “Nonetheless, I cannot point my finger at an innocent man.”

“How scrupulous you grow of a sudden. I warn you, Babylonian, you better begin to speak the truth, or I will put your head on top of a pike taller than Zikir’s.”

The man squirmed under Darius’s scrutiny. “I speak the truth, my lord. It was not him who engaged me. Perhaps he sent a servant to employ me. But this was not the man who hired me. That is all I know.”

Darius ignored the niggling doubt that churned in the pit of his stomach like a sickness. The evidence of logic had piled high enough to convince the most stringent judge. “I do not understand this discrepancy. We arrest him, anyway. I don’t need your testimony to carry my case against him. There is enough external evidence to convict him.”

The problem, however, was not that he needed Nassir’s testimony. It was that Nassir’s testimony pointed away from Zikir. Rather than indicting him, Nassir was testifying to his innocence.

Darius ground his teeth and summoned Meres. Roxanna came in dressed as Cyrus just as they were getting ready to leave. “Are we going to arrest Zikir?”

He rolled his eyes. “I suppose you wish to participate in the festivities?”

Her wide mouth opened to show a row of very even, white teeth. “I believe you’re beginning to know me.”

“Lucky me. We have a complication. Nassir claims that Zikir isn’t the man who hired him.”

“Oh. If you arrest the wrong man, the real culprit might take advantage of the confusion to get away.”

Darius pulled a hand through his hair. “Do you think I haven’t considered that possibility? Yet how could he be the wrong man? Everything else fits. If we don’t move now, he is sure to attempt on the king’s life again.”

They departed, en masse, for Zikir’s offices in the palace. Darius decided that he would rather have the Babylonian brothers near him than leave them alone in his room, coming up with ways to create new mischief.

Zikir’s arrest proved an anticlimax. The old man did not seem surprised by their appearance or by the charges that Darius laid against him. He came to his feet with the slow movements Darius had come to recognize. “You are making a mistake.”

Something in the tone of Zikir’s voice struck Darius. He sounded resigned. He sounded innocent. Annoyed at his lingering doubts in the face of a mountain of evidence, Darius said nothing, waiting for the old man to move. He gave him his dignity, leaving him free from fetters as they walked down the long passageway in the palace.

A man walked toward them from the opposite direction, his head bent. He seemed lost in thought. With an incoherent shout, Niq sprinted after him, yelling, “It’s him! It’s him!”

Before Darius could make a single reasonable inquiry, Niq had the man sprawled on the floor, and was sitting on him, bending his arm behind his back until the man began to moan and mumble for mercy.

Darius made his way over to the ignoble heap on the floor. He bent to see if he recognized Niq’s prey. The man’s face was squished into the marble tiles until his nose had flattened into an unnatural angle. “Friend of yours?”

“He’s the dim-witted fool who tattooed my head.”

By now a crowd of men had begun to gather around them. Darius groaned inwardly, knowing that a quick, clean arrest was no longer an option.

Turning toward Zikir, he said, “Your servant, I believe.”

Zikir gave a bitter smile. “You shall find it is not so.”

A harassed-looking official pushed through the crowd. Darius recognized him as Pyrus’s secretary. “What goes on here?”

“These men are being arrested for plotting against the king’s life.”

“Lord Darius! There must be some mistake. You are arresting Lord Pyrus’s man for conspiracy against the king?”

Darius went still. “Lord Pyrus’s man? Are you certain? Don’t you mean Lord Zikir’s servant?”

The secretary shook his head until his hat fell forward onto his forehead. He pushed it back into a dignified angle. “I am certain. This man came with Lord Pyrus from Persia. As I recall, he has served him since childhood.”

Rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index finger, Darius tried to untangle the monstrous knot that this new revelation presented. He cast a look in Zikir’s direction. “Did you bribe Pyrus’s servant to work for you?”

Zikir said nothing.

“Time to visit the acting satrap,” Darius announced. “If I have to put the whole lot of you in jail, I will. I will stuff all of Damascus into a prison cell and be done with this case. You have worn out my patience.”

He changed direction toward Pyrus’s chambers, walking with purposeful steps. Roxanna lingered close, followed by Meres and Arta who walked on either side of Zikir. Niq came next, frog-marching his prisoner, pronouncing loud admonishments like, “Serves you right for tattooing my head with seditious rubbish.” His brother Nassir followed at a more sedate pace. Then came Pyrus’s secretary and what seemed like half the Damascus court trailing behind him.

Darius’s head was beginning to pound. He wished he could climb on top of Samson and ride like the wind in any direction as long as it was away from this place and the annoying crowd. He shot a glance in Zikir’s direction. His face was devoid of any expression other than exhaustion.

Darius and his entourage burst into Pyrus’s chamber without bothering to knock. The time for niceties was long over. The acting satrap put down the golden goblet of wine he was holding and came to his feet unsteadily.

“What is the meaning of this intrusion? What are all these people doing here?”

Darius did not bother with an answer. He turned to Pyrus’s servant. “Listen. It’s been a long five months chasing after you and your master. I’m in a foul mood, and I think planting my fist in your face might be exactly what I need to make me cheer up. Why don’t you do yourself a favor and tell me who your real master is. It can make considerable difference in how you are treated.”

The man’s pale irises swam in the white of his eyes. He looked at Pyrus and then at Zikir. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Pyrus swayed as he sank down behind his desk again. Picking up his goblet, he took a long swallow. “Would you mind telling me why you are interrogating my servant?”

“I don’t like his taste in tattoos.”

“Then by all means, take off his head. I can’t abide bad taste.”

Darius studied Pyrus. The man was drunk as always. With sudden clarity he remembered Zikir’s words from the morning.
That was not always the case
. Darius held his breath for a moment.

“Lord Pyrus, tell me, when did you start drinking so heavily?”

Pyrus took another heavy mouthful of his wine. His round face had turned red. “That’s none of your affair.” Darius persisted. “People grieve in odd ways. Loss affects everyone differently. Our friend Zikir here, for example, has worn mourning and struggled with melancholy since the death of his grandson. Another man might take to drink. Did you start drinking just before the Persian New Year?”

Pyrus’s assistant who had managed to make his way into the room, thinking he was aiding his superior, said, “It is true, sir. Lord Pyrus drank in moderation until a few months ago. He received bad news. A friend’s demise, I believe, though he would not say. He has been a good acting satrap. This is a passing problem.”

Pyrus’s florid skin lost its color. His hands shook around the stem of the goblet to which he clung. To Darius’s surprise, he saw that Zikir had tears in his eyes. It came to him that some tragedy, which had given rise to the assassination attempt, affected both men. Whatever the nature of this mystery, it deserved some privacy.

“Everyone but my men, out. Now.” Darius knew how to project authority. His voice, his manner, his address had become regal, brooking no resistance. Although the residents of the palace assumed him to be a mere visitor from the king, ranked in their estimation below the acting satrap, they obeyed him without a murmur. Darius motioned for Arta to close the door.

Before he could speak again, Nassir came forward. “My lord. This is the man who commissioned me. I am certain of it.” He pointed a finger at Pyrus.

Darius motioned toward Nassir. “Lord Pyrus, do you recognize this man? Do you now understand what I’m after?”

“Go to the demons.”

“I’m afraid you are ahead of me in that line. Tell me why you did it. Why did you try to kill the king? How did you persuade Zikir’s grandson to join you?”

“Are
you
the butcher who killed him?” Pyrus came to his feet, holding himself against the table with spread hands. “He was worth ten of you.”

“He killed himself. Cut his own throat rather than face the possibility of betraying you. So you see, if anyone caused his death, it was you.”

Pyrus hid his face in trembling fingers. “That’s not true. I loved him.” Lifting his head, he looked at Zikir. “I
loved
him.”

Zikir rubbed a hand against his chest. “You ruined him. Xerxes was a good man until you came. You corrupted him, mind and body, and taught him to resent his betters.”

“I taught him to have pride as befit his lineage!” Pyrus shouted. “Who is Artaxerxes? A nobody. A second son. He only came to the throne because the true prince regent was killed. And yet he sits on that throne as if he owns the world. As if he is superior to everyone.

“I’m from the same family as he, you know. But all my life, he has treated me like an insect. Because I’m not a soldier, because I’m not a remarkable marksman, I’m not good enough for him. Oh no. He barely tolerates me. This post is the first crumb he has thrown my way, and he only did it for the sake of my uncle. He didn’t even tell me in person. Sent me a missive, penned by his scribe.”

“This is the whining of a child. You stole my grandson from me for this? For this pathetic excuse of a grievance?”

“You’d turned Xerxes into a backwater peasant. He was the son of a king! Equal to Artaxerxes by blood and his superior by ability. He deserved to occupy a throne.”

“I taught him to make the best of what life gave him. You got him killed. For the sake of your whimpering accusations, you taught him to hate. To murder. He’s dead because of you.”

Pyrus collapsed into his chair. His lips had turned white. “I loved him,” he said again.

“I know,” Zikir whispered. “I pity you for that love, for I know, better than anyone, what you suffer.”

Darius signaled Meres to arrest Pyrus, then came to stand before Zikir. “I accused you falsely. For that, I ask your forgiveness. Though in cases such as these, it is customary for the family of the perpetrator to suffer grave punishment as a warning to other miscreants, I will ask the king to spare you and your daughter. You had no part in this. I don’t understand Pyrus’s hold on your grandson. I don’t know how he wielded so much influence over him. But it is obvious that Pyrus carries the greatest share of the blame. Xerxes has already paid the price of his indiscretion with his life. Pyrus’s turn will come too.”

Zikir collapsed on a stool. “It’s small comfort to me, that man’s death. I will never have my grandson again. And now his name will be dragged through the mud. I wished I could have spared him of that.”

Darius thought for a moment. “Perhaps I can arrange to keep his role in this plot from becoming common knowledge. The important thing is that the king’s life is safe. Tell me one thing, Zikir. When I gave you the opportunity to destroy Pyrus’s reputation, why did you not take it? I understand that you wished to keep your grandson’s memory unsullied. But you could have used many other ways to end Pyrus’s reign here. I certainly gave you a lot of opportunity.”

“Did you not notice how he suffers? What more could I do to him?”

Admiration for the old man filled Darius. He liked the dignity the grieving grandfather displayed. He also liked the pity that prevented him from destroying a ruined man like Pyrus. “I must leave Damascus soon,” he said. “This place will need a steady rule in the wake of such a scandal. Will you agree to act as satrap until the king decides what to do?”