The Banquet That Shook the Empire
Word travels fast in Susa — especially when it concerns the king. It started with whispers: “A feast like no other… 180 days!” Then came the facts. King Xerxes, in a display of wealth and military might, had opened the gates of indulgence. Silk flowed like water. Gold gleamed on every goblet. Wine? Endless.
But power breeds pride, and pride breeds foolishness. At the height of his intoxication, the king called for his queen — Vashti — to appear before a crowd of drunken nobles wearing only her crown.
She refused, and in that one act, everything changed.
A Palace Without a Queen
The nobles around the king, fearful of what such disobedience might inspire in their own homes, urged swift action. Vashti was stripped of her title and sent into silence — erased from history with barely a whisper.
That decision rippled across the empire. The decree went out: “Every man should be ruler in his own household.”
It seemed absurd to me — using royal authority to manage household pride — but I understood the fear that drove it. When a man who commands nations cannot command his wife, the empire itself begins to feel fragile.
And so, Susa waited, queenless.
The Search Begins
After some time — perhaps when the sting of his pride had dulled — the king’s advisors proposed a plan to restore his joy:
A kingdom-wide search for the most beautiful virgins. Let them be brought to the palace, trained, pampered, and presented to him one by one. Let him choose the next queen from among them.
I should have seen it coming.
When men of power grow restless, they do not search for wisdom. They search for beauty. And I — well, I was a man of the gate. I heard things. And I knew this search would reach beyond palaces and noble homes. It would reach the Jewish quarter. It would reach us.
Her Silence Spoke Everything
Hadassah didn’t say a word when the officers came to gather the girls. She had heard the whispers before I even told her. She simply stood in the doorway, eyes wide, hands clenched at her sides.
“I have to go, don’t I?” she asked.
And I — God help me — I nodded. Because if I said no, they might come for her anyway. But if I said yes, perhaps I could protect her from a distance. Perhaps she would survive.
“Hide who you are,” I told her. “Say nothing of your people. Say nothing of your God.” She looked at me then with eyes full of questions, maybe even hurt. But she didn’t argue. Hadassah trusted me. And I had never felt the weight of that trust more than in that moment.
Into the Palace
When she left, I felt something in me tear. I tried not to show it. She needed strength. But when the door closed behind her, I sank to my knees.
She was taken to the palace with others — young women from across the empire. They would be bathed, perfumed, trained in etiquette and charm. They would be paraded like ornaments, and only one would be chosen.
I prayed it would not be her, and yet I prayed she would not be cast aside. It is a strange thing to want both protection and favor. To ask God to keep her safe, while also asking Him to elevate her.
At the Gate Again
From that day forward, I returned to the palace gate every day. I waited. I watched. I listened for any scrap of news. The guards grew used to my presence. Some mocked. Others pitied. But none understood.
They thought I came to beg for news of a love. They did not know she was my daughter in all but name.
Some days, I saw her. Only a glimpse — her figure moving behind a column or along the upper balcony. We could not speak. But I could see she was healthy. That had to be enough.
And so I waited, day after day, at the king’s gate. Where politics and prayer collide. Where the fate of empires and orphans is weighed in silence.
