They whisper my name now.
Haman.
Son of Hammedatha.
The Agagite.
They say it with fear, with admiration, with resentment. That last one — I don’t mind. Resentment is a quieter kind of respect. It means they know I’ve risen higher than they dared to reach.
Let them whisper.
Let them bow.
It is what we were owed, long before I was born.
A Legacy of Humiliation
My blood remembers what theirs tried to erase. My people were once kings — Agag, my forefather, wore a crown while their shepherd boy sharpened swords behind sheep pens. And then Saul — their precious chosen one — brought ruin on us.
He didn’t kill Agag out of strength.
He did it because of weakness.
Fear masked as obedience.
Obedience masked as war.
And then came their prophet, Samuel — that cloaked executioner — finishing what Saul lacked the nerve to do.
They called it righteousness.
We called it what it was: revenge in holy garments.
And we? We were scattered. Laughed at. Beaten. Absorbed.
But not broken.
Not me.
I carry his name. Agag’s. And I will see it lifted again — over every Jew that ever dared look me in the eye.
The Court and the Climb
Susa is a maze of silk and secrets, and I learned to walk its halls with a smile sharp enough to cut fabric. The nobles? Fat, soft, arrogant in their heritage.
But I — I was hungry. Ruthless, yes. Calculated, absolutely. I didn’t inherit my seat. I earned it. One nod at a time. One betrayal at a time.
The king — Xerxes — he trusts me. He doesn’t see everything, but he sees what he wants. And I know how to show it to him.
I made myself indispensable. When wars needed winning, I knew which general to flatter. When alliances needed paper, I knew which enemies to provoke. When the king needed validation, I offered it with honey.
And when the council chambers opened again, I was at the head of the line.
Not by blood… by brilliance.
They Bowed — Almost All
So when the decree came that all must bow before me, I expected nothing less.
And they did. Every single one of them — ministers, merchants, soldiers, priests.
Even the foreigners bent low when I passed.
Except one.
One man.
One Jew.
He stood while the others knelt.
His name? Mordecai.
He said nothing.
Did nothing.
But he looked at me.
And that look was enough to unravel a thousand years of quiet rage.
He didn’t see my robes.
He saw my roots.
And he dared — dared — to remain standing.
The Fire Beneath My Name
I knew then what had to be done.
This wasn’t about disrespect.
It wasn’t even about power.
This was about history.
This was about legacy.
This was about making the name of Agag echo again — not in ruin, but in fear.
But I would not strike just Mordecai.
No. That would be too small. Too personal. Too forgettable.
If one Jew could defy me, others would too.
So I would deal with them all.
Not as individuals… but as a people.
