At last, she was at his side. Pleasant warmth filled his groin. His lust gland swelled as he remembered her lubricated fingers teasing and probing him. He reached out his begging palm.

She untied her bundle. Unwrapped the jar. Held it up.

He stared at it, snatched it, circled it in the air, pressed it to his heart, removed the cap and surveyed the contents. His marble eyes, hidden under puffy lids, darted from side to side as he burrowed a finger into the jar and poked the organ. Stroked it. Weighed it. His stare flicked back to her.

“Thank you!” he croaked, pain tearing at his chest.

“What does the Shah know?” she asked, clutching the emerald in her hand.

“Beware … Moon Face … the Shah….” His hand vaulted to grab the stone.

Rebekah dodged him. “Has the order gone out?”

“The date is set Gold Dust will die …” he gasped, doubling over.

“When?” she cried. “When’s the date?”

The eunuch’s fingers clawed at his chest. The jar crashed onto the marble. Rebekah sprang back. Glass, sand, and shriveled sweetbread scattered about.

Narcissus saw his hope strewn to the dust. He buckled. Collapsed.

“Talk!” she ordered.

His eyes gaped at her.

“Talk,” she pleaded.

Saliva dribbled from his mouth.

She slipped her sandals off and pressed her heel to his artery.

Narcissus the Great Black Eunuch was dead.

Rouh’Allah the Spirit of God cuddled the emerald in his palm. Such a pure green. Such a flawless stone. Such workmanship. But he was taken more by the woman than by the stone that dangled from a rope around her neck. Not a line on her face had changed, not one strand of hair had lost its luster, not a spark had diminished from her violet eyes. And she was wearing the same dress she had worn when she came to offer her daughter. That day was carved in his heart. She had left behind an aura that warmed his home for years. He had propped that parcel of coins on the shelf in his bedroom. A token of his shame. At times, he had weighed it in his palm and had thought of her. In a world that could not tell valor from vanity, the pouch remained a symbol of her courage. He had cherished it as if it held a part of the woman. Now she had returned, wearing around her neck the glass bead necklace she had worn that day, and nestled between her breasts an emerald worth more than his wealth.

“Keep the stone. I’ll give you all the gold you need.”

She colored. The man had not changed. When would he realize she would not accept charity? She had come to plead once again on behalf of her daughter. This time to bribe a whole contingency of spies and guards to learn when and how her daughter’s life would end. Although the Shah did not have the heart for executions, Rebekah knew he could not allow an adulteress free among his sultanas.