white powder. A filigreed silver amphora held freshly made kohl, which I applied to my brown eyes with an unsteady hand. There was a red pot for my cheeks and another for my lips; these I applied with faint hope that I put the right one on the appropriate feature.
When I had finished using every single luxurious item sent by Damaspia, I examined myself in the mirror and gasped.
I looked hideous.
I had used too much white powder, and against my strong, never plucked eyebrows, which joined in the middle of my forehead, the feigned whiteness of color overlaying my skin made me look more like a corpse than a living woman.
The way I had applied kohl to my eyes made me look like a loser after a serious fight. With some discomfort, I began to realize why Persian women removed excess hair, for my downy mustache sat atop my unnaturally red lips like an insect over a ripe berry. The image in the mirror squeezed every last drop of bravado and defiance out of me.
Before I could wipe my face, one of Damaspia’s ladies in waiting rushed into my room.
“Where have you been? Everyone has already assembled—!Oh great, holy fires, what have you done to yourself?”
“I—I was about to clean my face and start again.”
“There is no time!” she wailed.
“Won’t you please help me?” I begged, taking a step toward her, finally panicking at the thought of the disgrace that surely awaited me.
She lifted a hand to her mouth and nose. “What have you been doing, chewing on raw garlic all morning? Your breath reeks!”
I slapped a hand in front of my mouth. “What do I do?”
“There is no time,” she said again. “You already run the risk of offending the queen, not to mention Lord Vivan and his son by tarrying so long. Quickly, put on your robe and let us go.”
Later I would think of that moment—of my decision to obey her—with great regret. Obedience to palace protocol had been drummed into my head for three years, so I fell in with her command too easily. For her part, she must have been thinking of the fulfillment of her duty, which was simply the punctual delivery of the bride to the wedding feast. Taking the paint off my face would have consumed a good bit of time; we would have arrived late. Yet looking back, I am certain that my tardiness would have been less offensive to the queen and to Lord Vivan than my current appearance. I suspect, however, that the handmaiden was panicked over the thought of not performing the duty assigned to her. Not that her decision saved her from recriminations later. I would not be surprised if Damaspia took her to task for delivering me to the feast looking as I did. We both miscalculated.
We walked through the long corridors of the women’s quarters and made our way toward the Gate Tower, leading into the Processional Way. The wedding feast was to be held in the Throne Hall, a majestic structure recently completed byArtaxerxes, which stood at the end of the Processional Way. But the wedding ceremony itself was to be more private, located in a smaller assembly room to the east of the Throne Hall.
Caught in a dream-like trance, I hardly noticed the splendor that passed before my eyes as I ran. The queen’s handmaiden pulled me behind her, forcing me to keep up with her hurried steps, the clicking of our heels echoing on the stone floors. And then with an awkward turn we arrived.
Persian weddings required the bridegroom and close family and friends to arrive first. The bride entered the room when everyone had already gathered, and she sat next to her betrothed at the head of the room where a pavilion was set up under a delicate overhang of fabric. Before them was laid a number of exquisitely decorated items, each bearing a symbolic significance: a large loaf of flat bread, cut in half; wheat and barley painted and decorated into patterns on a silver tray; honey and sweets; mirror and candelabra.
I was to enter
When I had finished using every single luxurious item sent by Damaspia, I examined myself in the mirror and gasped.
I looked hideous.
I had used too much white powder, and against my strong, never plucked eyebrows, which joined in the middle of my forehead, the feigned whiteness of color overlaying my skin made me look more like a corpse than a living woman.
The way I had applied kohl to my eyes made me look like a loser after a serious fight. With some discomfort, I began to realize why Persian women removed excess hair, for my downy mustache sat atop my unnaturally red lips like an insect over a ripe berry. The image in the mirror squeezed every last drop of bravado and defiance out of me.
Before I could wipe my face, one of Damaspia’s ladies in waiting rushed into my room.
“Where have you been? Everyone has already assembled—!Oh great, holy fires, what have you done to yourself?”
“I—I was about to clean my face and start again.”
“There is no time!” she wailed.
“Won’t you please help me?” I begged, taking a step toward her, finally panicking at the thought of the disgrace that surely awaited me.
She lifted a hand to her mouth and nose. “What have you been doing, chewing on raw garlic all morning? Your breath reeks!”
I slapped a hand in front of my mouth. “What do I do?”
“There is no time,” she said again. “You already run the risk of offending the queen, not to mention Lord Vivan and his son by tarrying so long. Quickly, put on your robe and let us go.”
Later I would think of that moment—of my decision to obey her—with great regret. Obedience to palace protocol had been drummed into my head for three years, so I fell in with her command too easily. For her part, she must have been thinking of the fulfillment of her duty, which was simply the punctual delivery of the bride to the wedding feast. Taking the paint off my face would have consumed a good bit of time; we would have arrived late. Yet looking back, I am certain that my tardiness would have been less offensive to the queen and to Lord Vivan than my current appearance. I suspect, however, that the handmaiden was panicked over the thought of not performing the duty assigned to her. Not that her decision saved her from recriminations later. I would not be surprised if Damaspia took her to task for delivering me to the feast looking as I did. We both miscalculated.
We walked through the long corridors of the women’s quarters and made our way toward the Gate Tower, leading into the Processional Way. The wedding feast was to be held in the Throne Hall, a majestic structure recently completed byArtaxerxes, which stood at the end of the Processional Way. But the wedding ceremony itself was to be more private, located in a smaller assembly room to the east of the Throne Hall.
Caught in a dream-like trance, I hardly noticed the splendor that passed before my eyes as I ran. The queen’s handmaiden pulled me behind her, forcing me to keep up with her hurried steps, the clicking of our heels echoing on the stone floors. And then with an awkward turn we arrived.
Persian weddings required the bridegroom and close family and friends to arrive first. The bride entered the room when everyone had already gathered, and she sat next to her betrothed at the head of the room where a pavilion was set up under a delicate overhang of fabric. Before them was laid a number of exquisitely decorated items, each bearing a symbolic significance: a large loaf of flat bread, cut in half; wheat and barley painted and decorated into patterns on a silver tray; honey and sweets; mirror and candelabra.
I was to enter
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