Esther 2: 21–23
The palace was alive and hummed with the rhythm of power — the echo of sandals against marble, the soft shuffle of scrolls, the laughter of courtiers masking ambition. I had learned to read these sounds as one reads a psalm: the pauses, the hidden meanings between the lines.
But that morning, the air itself seemed uneasy — a low tremor beneath the routine.
From the window of my chamber, I could see the gate where Mordecai kept his vigil. He stood, as he always did, alert but unassuming, the steady presence that anchored me to the world I had left behind. Even from this distance, I could sense when his posture stiffened, when something shifted in the current of his thoughts. That day, it did.
A Sinister Plot Brews
By evening, a servant slipped quietly into my room, breathless, bearing a folded parchment marked with my uncle’s hand.
“Two of the king’s guards, Bigthana and Teresh, plot to take his life. Their plan is set for the next royal banquet. You must act swiftly to protect him.”
My fingers trembled. The ink itself seemed alive with urgency. I closed my eyes, whispering a prayer to the God who hides yet never sleeps.
I knew the risk of acting — a queen’s word carried weight, but it could also draw suspicion. Yet silence was its own kind of treachery. Mordecai’s words rang through my heart: Perhaps you were brought to this place for such a time as this.
Mordecai Proves His Loyalty
That night, as the torches flickered low, I entered the king’s chambers. The scent of myrrh lingered in the air, mingling with parchment and candle smoke.
He looked up from his scrolls, his gaze softening. “My queen, what brings you here at this hour?”
“My lord,” I said, forcing calm into my voice, “a grave matter has reached me — a plot against your life. Two of your guards, Bigthana and Teresh, have conspired to strike during your next private banquet.”
His eyes darkened with disbelief, then sharpened. “Are you certain?”
“I am,” I answered. “The warning comes from Mordecai, who stands watch at your gate.”
Guards were summoned. The quiet of the night fractured under the sound of hurried footsteps and whispered orders. By dawn, truth had surfaced: the conspirators confessed, and justice fell swiftly.
The king’s gratitude was sincere; he ordered the account written into the royal chronicles. Yet when I later learned that Mordecai received no honor for his loyalty, a small ache stirred in me. Recognition would come in time — I felt it in my spirit — for God weaves justice in His own hour.
But the peace that followed was thin, fragile as a silken veil.
In the days after, a new name began to echo through the palace — Haman.
Haman, The Enemy
As the days passed, the court returned to its usual rhythms, though the shadows of treachery lingered in the minds of those who had witnessed the events. It was during this time that Haman began his meteoric rise to power.
He moved with the confidence of one born to command, his every gesture calculated to draw the eye. His presence in the court was commanding, his ambitions vast. The king favored him, elevating him above the nobles, granting him authority second only to his own.
Perhaps the king saw in him a steadiness, a stability that the court had lost after the recent turmoil. Yet I saw something else in Haman’s gaze — a hunger not for service, but for worship.
With his newfound power, Haman’s arrogance grew unchecked. He demanded reverence from all who crossed his path, a demand that Mordecai, out of faith and principle, refused to meet. And when word reached me that Mordecai would not bow before him, I felt the first chill of a storm I could not yet see.
Mordecai’s silent defiance planted the seeds of enmity that would soon threaten not only his life but the fate of an entire people.
