The air is heavy with the scent of spiced wine and roasted meats; the echo of feasting has only just faded. In the halls of King Darius, a banquet celebrating the vast reach of his power, stretching across one hundred twenty-seven administrative districts from India to Ethiopia, has concluded. The attendees, "all the officials of Media and Persia," are satisfied and dispersed. The king himself has retired, sleeping off the celebration. In the quiet hours that follow, three young bodyguards, restless and ambitious, devise a challenge. They seek to name the "most superior thing in the world." Their answers are written, sealed, and placed "under the pillow of King Darius," a silent wager awaiting the morning. The stakes are immense: purple robes, gold cups, and the coveted title of "Darius' confidant." When the king awakens, the court is assembled not for matters of state, but for a philosophical debate, a game of wits to see whose word will be judged wisest.

Reflections

This story unfolds entirely within a human frame of reference; the divine presence is noticeable only by its profound silence. The banquet celebrates the power of an earthly king, and the contest seeks to identify the "most superior" force within the human experience. The first bodyguard offers wine as his candidate, describing it not as a benevolent gift but as an autonomous, controlling force. He argues for its superiority based on its ability to "mislead the minds," equalize king and orphan, and make one "forget all grief and every obligation." This power is chaotic, deceptive, and ultimately hollow. It is a power defined by its ability to unmake creation, to erase memory, and to sever relationships. The scene presents a world grasping for ultimates, yet looking only at the elements of its own experience, apparently unaware of a transcendent power that orders all things.

The bodyguards' contest is born of ambition, a desire to be "clothed in purple" and sit "next to Darius." It reflects a universal human drive to understand power and to get close to it. We are constantly evaluating what holds the most sway in our lives: wealth, political influence, personal relationships, or abstract ideals. The first young man's speech is a startlingly honest, if cynical, portrayal of escapism and self-destruction. He describes a force that helps one "forget all grief and every obligation." This is the allure of any substance or activity that offers a temporary exit from responsibility and pain. His final, stark question, "isn't wine superior, since it forces people to behave like this?" exposes the tragic appeal of oblivion; we sometimes value a thing not for the good it creates, but for the reality it helps us temporarily destroy.

The challenge of the three bodyguards becomes our own: what one word do we believe is "most superior"? Our answer to that question dictates our priorities and our actions. The first speech serves as a potent mirror. It forces us to examine the things we use to cope, to celebrate, or to escape. Do we allow temporal things, like the wine he describes, to "mislead" our minds or make us "forget" our most important obligations? Do we seek a power that numbs the heart, or one that enlivens it? Integrating this text means identifying the "wine" in our own lives, the influences we allow to level our judgment and make us "forget to be civil" with those we love. It is an invitation to check our own hearts for what we have placed on the throne, questioning if it is a force for chaos or a principle of genuine life.