The great halls of the palace were silent, wrapped in the hush of midnight. Even the ever-burning torches lining the corridors flickered lazily, casting long, sluggish shadows upon the marble floors. The world outside slept, but within the grand chambers of the king, there was no rest.
Xerxes shifted beneath the heavy silk covers, exhaling in frustration. Sleep had eluded him for hours. He closed his eyes, willing his body to relax, but the weight of something unspoken gnawed at him. A vague unease, a sensation that something was unfinished, unsettled.
He threw off the covers and sat up, rubbing his forehead. The silence of the night pressed down upon him, amplifying his thoughts.
“Bring the records of the kingdom,” he commanded.
The nearest attendant, who had been nodding off in a corner, startled awake and scurried from the room. Within minutes, scribes arrived, carrying the great scrolls of the royal chronicles—tedious accounts of laws, conquests, and tributes paid by distant lands.
Xerxes expected the droning words to lull him to sleep, as they always had before. But tonight, the scrolls held something different.
“There was a plot to assassinate the king,” the scribe read, his voice steady.
Xerxes leaned forward, his brow furrowing. “Continue.”
“Two of the king’s eunuchs, Bigthana and Teresh, sought to take the king’s life. But their plan was uncovered and stopped by a man named Mordecai, who reported it to the queen. The traitors were executed, and the king’s life was spared.”
A beat of silence followed. The scribe hesitated before looking up.
Xerxes’ fingers drummed against the armrest of his seat. The name Mordecai stirred something within him, but not from memory—from absence.
“What honor or recognition was given to this man for his service?” Xerxes asked.
The scribe cleared his throat. “None, my lord.”
The answer sat heavy in the air. None.
Xerxes frowned. That was not right. A man who had saved the king’s life had gone unnoticed, unrewarded. Injustice—even by oversight—did not sit well with him.
The uneasy feeling that had haunted his sleepless night now had a name: Mordecai.
And it had to be rectified.
Xerxes sat straighter, his voice firm. “Who is in the court at this hour?”
The scribe hesitated. “My lord, it is late… no one—”
A pause.
“Well… Haman is here.”
Xerxes raised an eyebrow. “Haman?”
“The noble Haman arrived just moments ago and waits in the outer court, seeking an audience with the king.”
Xerxes smirked. Fitting.
“Summon him.”
Haman’s Delusions of Glory
Haman stood in the outer court, his hands clasped behind his back, his mind alive with triumph. The gallows had been prepared, looming high in the courtyard—a towering reminder of his dominance.
Soon, Mordecai would hang from them, and Haman’s irritation would be replaced with satisfaction.
A servant appeared, bowing deeply. “The king will see you now.”
Haman straightened his robes and strode into the chamber, his heart already swelling. Surely, the king would grant his request without hesitation.
Xerxes, still seated upon his throne, wasted no time with pleasantries.
“Haman,” he said, leaning forward, his expression unreadable. “Tell me—what should be done for the man the king delights to honor?”
Haman blinked.
A slow, self-satisfied grin spread across his face. Who else could the king mean but himself?
His mind raced. What reward could be worthy of such an honor? Wealth? Power? No—he had those already. Something greater. Something visible.
He bowed slightly before speaking. “For the man the king delights to honor, let a royal robe be brought—the very robe the king himself has worn. And let him be mounted on a horse the king has ridden, one adorned with the royal crest.
“Then, let the highest of the king’s nobles lead him through the city streets, proclaiming before him: ‘Thus shall it be done for the man the king delights to honor!’”
Haman lifted his chin, pleased with his own ingenuity. He could already see himself parading through the city, reveling in the envy of the people, the admiration of the court.
Xerxes smiled, nodding. “Excellent.”
Haman’s chest swelled. The honor was his.
Then—
“Go at once,” Xerxes continued, “and do just as you have said… for Mordecai the Jew, who sits at the king’s gate.”
Haman’s breath caught.
He could not have heard that correctly.
“M-Mordecai, my lord?”
“Yes.” Xerxes’ voice was unwavering. “Leave out nothing of what you have recommended.”
Silence stretched between them. Haman felt the blood drain from his face.
This was not how the night was supposed to unfold.
The Humiliation of Haman
Mordecai stood at the palace gates, unaware of the storm brewing behind him. His face was as calm as ever, his posture straight, his faith unwavering.
Then the sound of approaching hooves filled the morning air.
The people turned to see a royal procession emerging through the palace gates. A king’s horse, draped in royal banners, its hooves polished and gleaming. And there, standing beside it, was Haman.
But he was not riding the horse.
He was holding the reins.
His face was dark with barely concealed humiliation, his lips pressed into a thin, resentful line. It was he who would lead Mordecai through the streets.
The irony was unbearable.
Slowly, Mordecai stepped forward. Haman lifted the robe—his own suggestion—and draped it over Mordecai’s shoulders. Then, clenching his jaw, he helped him onto the horse.
A hush fell over the crowd.
Haman swallowed hard before forcing the words out.
“Thus shall it be done for the man the king delights to honor!”
The words burned his throat as he spoke them.
The people watched, astonished. Mordecai had been elevated, not destroyed.
And Haman? Haman had been made a fool.
A Turning Tide
Mordecai, ever humble, took no pleasure in the spectacle. He endured it as he had endured everything—with dignity, with faith.
When the procession ended, he returned to his place at the gates, as though nothing had changed.
But Haman?
Haman stumbled home, his head covered in shame. His wife and advisors, who had once spoken so confidently of his power, now trembled before him.
“If Mordecai, before whom your downfall has begun, is of Jewish descent,” Zeresh murmured, her face pale, “you will not overcome him. You will surely come to ruin.”
Her words unsettled him. For the first time in his life, Haman felt something he had never truly known.
Fear.
And before he had time to process it, messengers arrived.
“The queen’s banquet is ready. The king is waiting.”
Haman swallowed hard. He had gone to the palace that morning expecting to see Mordecai dead.
Instead, he had been the one humiliated.
Now, he would walk into the queen’s banquet…
Completely unaware that his downfall had only just begun.
