by Angela Hunt
I followed without a word. As a woman, I was accustomed to being invisible.
The steward, who introduced himself as Chuza, led us through a grand hall of polished stone and white marble. I found myself drifting closer to Tirza, the only familiar face in sight. But like an animal that senses danger, he slipped though another door and disappeared, leaving me alone.
The steward barked out a warning when my footsteps faltered: “Do not linger! Do not look around! Follow me without delay!”
Not wanting to be scolded again, I lowered my gaze and tucked my hands into my sleeves.
Finally we halted before a pair of double doors gleaming with pounded brass. More animal figures—lions and dogs and bears—had been etched into the metal while the center of each door featured a commanding figure with a bow and spear. I didn’t have to be told I was looking at a graven representation of Herod himself.
“Wait here,” Chuza hissed. He opened the doors slightly, releasing a stream of music into the hall, then disappeared, only to reappear a moment later.
He spoke first to the merchant. “Drop your gift at Herod’s feet, then step back and bow. Do not speak unless spoken to. Answer any question in as few words as possible. And do not approach the king under any circumstances.”
The merchant blew out his cheeks. “But how will I know if he wishes to obtain more of my goods?”
“He’ll tell you. As for you, woman—” Chuza turned to me—“do not speak unless Herod notices you. Do not lift your eyes when talking to the king. Do not look upon his face. State your case and wait for the king’s answer. Do you understand?”
Not certain what to do with my eyes, I met the steward’s gaze and immediately looked down. “I understand.”
“All right, then.” The little man turned and pulled the doors wide. The merchant lifted his chin and strode into a room filled with the rhythmic pounding of drums. Following like his shadow, I padded after him.
I nearly ran into the merchant when he stopped to lay his gift at Herod’s feet. Realizing I had followed too closely, I retreated and stood in silence, chin down, eyes scrolling upward, ears tuned to catch the slightest whisper.
I had never beheld anything like the scene that met my eyes.
At first I thought I had stepped outdoors. Vivid paintings of a grassy wilderness adorned the walls behind several couches where two men and a woman reclined around a small table. Clouds drifted through a blue sky painted on the ceiling over my head, and the soft breath of fans made me feel as though I had been ushered into the cool shade of a meadow by the lake.
Behind the young girls who stirred the air with their fans, a trio of slaves beat a series of graduated drums while a flautist piped a slithering melody. Near them, to my right, a lithe woman with pale skin moved her bare arms and legs and hips in time to the rhythm, bracelets jangling as she narrowed her eyes and grimaced at the men on the couches.
Those men had eyes for no one else. I did not think they even noticed our arrival.
I felt a blush burn my cheek. Because my business frequently brought me into contact with heathen foreigners, I had always considered myself sophisticated, but I had never seen anything like this lewd display of flesh and form. Even the prostitutes who occasionally tarried around Magdala’s city gates would never advertise their bodies as this young woman did.
The merchant from Jerusalem lost all custody of his eyes. For a long moment he stared at the writhing girl, then he snapped to his senses and remembered the steward’s instructions. He bowed before the king, pointedly lingering beside the wooden coffer on the floor.
Movement from the heaviest man on the couches caught my attention. He wore a tunic of white silk and a cloak of deep purple while a circlet of golden leaves crowned his brow. Every finger gleamed with gold; even his toes shone in the glow of lamplight. His hair had been oiled and set into tiny curls above a wide forehead and a soft, round chin.
He was a rounder, softer version of the warrior depicted on the brass doors: Herod Antipas.
Amid the thump of drums and the jangle of bracelets, my heart began to pound in my chest. Had I committed a foolish act by coming to this pagan palace? My murdered family cried out for vengeance, but why couldn’t HaShem lead me to someone more virtuous than Antipas?
My heart sank with swift disappointment. I had heard stories about this king, but I didn’t want to believe them. Stories can be exaggerated, rumors can be false, but one look at the Idumean king convinced me that I’d been sheltered from the full and terrible truth.
Rumor held that Antipas was as vicious as his father, and no one had forgotten the elder Herod’s murder of his favorite wife, Mariamne, her two sons, Alexander and Aristobulus, and, only five days before his death, his oldest son, Antipater. On his deathbed, the elder Herod had ordered the nobles assembled around him in his last moments to be executed, so his death might be attended by universal mourning.
Some said he had once ordered the massacre of every baby boy in a small village called Beit-Lechem, or Bethlehem. I would have thought such an act too barbarous for a descendant of Avraham, but the Herods were Edomites, and violence flowed through the blood of Esau’s offspring.
That thought brought another in its shadow, with a chill that struck deep in the pit of my stomach. If Herod the Great had killed scores of Hebrew babies without a second thought, could I expect his son to value the life of my baby boy?
I peered around the edge of my veil as the king leaned toward the merchant’s box, curiosity evident in his fleshy face. On the couch across from him, the heavily painted lady lifted her arm, touched her hennaed hands to her lips, and dramatically stifled a yawn. “Herod,” she said, her voice a purr in the room, “must we put up with these common folk while Salome is dancing?”
The king ignored her and gestured to the merchant. “Who are you and what have you brought me?”
“Long life and peace to you, my king.” The merchant lifted his head from the floor. “I have traveled many days to bring you this token of my esteem.”
With great care he raised the lid of the wooden box, exposing a golden crown. With one hand he lifted it from its silken bed, then he presented it to Herod.
The king tossed a gloating look at the woman, then removed the gold circlet he wore. The new crown was a cunning design; the goldsmith had skillfully hammered his material to resemble the reeds Herod had chosen to represent his magnificent city. From where I stood the narrow stalks looked almost lifelike.
Herod positioned the crown on his head, then shifted it so the thickest section of golden reeds rested squarely above his brows. “Herodias?” He grinned. “What do you think?”
The woman couldn’t have looked more bored. “Why do you want to wear a crown of weeds?”
The brightness that had lit Herod’s face dissipated. Pouting like a spoiled child, the king lifted the crown and unceremoniously tossed it back in the box.
“Does the gift not please you?” The worried merchant pressed his hands together. “If not, we could make something else, a representation more fitting to your august position. I could take this back to Jerusalem and have it reshaped into something more to your taste—”
Thought worked in Herod’s eyes as his squint tightened. “Few men bring gifts without also bringing a request,” he said, one fat hand falling to his dimpled knee. “What is your request?”
The merchant bowed his head again. “We would ask … that is, we would like to ask—”
“Do not exhaust my patience.”
“When you come to Jerusalem, will you wear the crown we have made? We would be honored to be known as Herod’s goldsmith; we would be respected if all Jerusalem recognized the jeweler who had fashioned the crown that graces your head.”
Herod sat up, swung his legs to the floor, and rested both hands on his knees. He regarded the merchant with eyes from which a film of boredom had been peeled away.
“I will wear your crown,” he finally said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mou
th, “but I will keep this one to amuse my dear wife. By the time I leave for the festivals of the high holy days in Jerusalem, you will furnish me with two additional crowns, one for me and one for Herodias. They will not be simple gold, but gold studded with rubies and other precious stones. They must be the most elegant crowns Eretz-Yisrael has ever seen.”
The merchant’s hands began to tremble. “Oh—oh, yes, of course. But two crowns with precious stones—the cost will be high!”
“Not as high as the honor I am bestowing on you.” The king’s dark eyes flicked toward Herodias, then returned to the merchant. “You may go.”
The merchant bowed his way out of the room, nearly running into me in the process. For a moment I was tempted to scurry away in his shadow, but memories of Yaakov, Avram, and Binyamin compelled me to stay.
Herod reclined again on his couch and reached for a plate laden with pastry and fruit. Herodias, however, had seen me—one woman will always see another.
“Herod.” She caught his gaze, then tilted her head toward me. “Another waits for you.”
The king popped a pastry onto his tongue, dusted his hands, and turned to me, his cheeks distended. He measured me with a cool appraising look, then mumbled around the delicacies in his mouth: “What do you want, woman?”
I fell to my knees in the heat of his pitiless gaze. “Merciful king, my soul is greatly troubled. I have come from Magdala with a request.”
I could not lift my head, but in the play of shadows on the floor I saw him turn to his wife. “Has there been trouble in Magdala?”
“Ask her,” Herodias answered.
“Look at me, woman.”
I trembled, but did as he commanded.
“What is this trouble?”
I tried to summon the words, but they clotted in my throat. I had come so far, waited so long, and carried such a heavy burden. This odious toad could avenge the deaths of my family, so why wouldn’t my tongue cooperate with my will?
Because terror had seized me. The Romans who attacked my family had been cruel, but Herod had been so cruel for so long he wouldn’t hesitate to order my death if I insulted him. He had probably killed others for less.
I gulped back my fear. “If it please the king—”
“It would please the king if you would get on with it.”
Herodias giggled.
I drew a long, quivering breath, mastering the panic that shook me. “If it please the king, I come to you as a woman who has been most unjustly injured. Murder, oh king, has been committed in your territory. My husband, my two sons, and my daughter-in-law were most foully killed only a few days ago.”
“Murder?” Herod put on the look of a man who has just been knocked over by a charging goat. “In my territory?”
Scarcely daring to breathe, I nodded.
“Was this murder provoked in any way?”
The question stole my breath. Provoked? “I’m not sure what you mean,” I confessed, “but neither my husband nor my sons did anything to injure the men who treated them so abominably.”
“Then you shall have the justice you seek.” Herod leaned forward, his weight on one elbow. “But first I must know—what sort of Jews kill an entire family without help? Have you a pair of Samsons living up there in Magdala?”
Herodias laughed aloud, and at the sound of her mirth my fear shifted to irritation.
“The murderers are not Samsons, oh king, and neither are they children of Avraham. They are Roman soldiers; one is a centurion and the other is one of his officers.”
Herod’s heavy jaw fell open before he recovered from his surprise. “You’re sure about this?”
“Yes, my king. The Romans were passing through the area and camped outside our city. My neighbors investigated the matter on my behalf. Others were involved, of course, but those two were the leaders.”
Herod squeezed his eyes so tight his entire face seemed about to collapse on itself. “Roman centurions do not go around the countryside murdering Judean citizens. Rome wants to govern a peaceful people, and murder is not peaceful.”
The tide had turned—a moment ago I had Herod’s promise to help, but the edge in his voice suggested he was about to change his mind. I would have to regain his cooperation quickly.
“Perhaps, sir, the centurion thought he had cause to act, though I’m sure you’ll agree his motivation was baseless and his reaction exaggerated beyond the bounds of reason. My son is—was—quick-tempered. Though he said nothing against this Roman, I witnessed something between them earlier that day.”
Herod opened one eye in a cautious slit. “Go on.”
“It was nothing important, my king.”
“Nothing is nothing, and yet you saw something. So speak, woman.”
“I saw my son Avram … spit at the centurion’s sandal.”
“He spat at him?” Tremors of mirth fractured Herodias’s voice.
Desperate to have Herod understand, I unleashed the torrent of words bubbling in my throat: “Avram spat at the man’s sandal, on his sandal. But the centurion, this Gaius, did not protest. Instead he came back under cover of darkness and struck an innocent family at supper! With his men, with this giant Atticus, he slaughtered my loved ones and burned my home! He took everything I had, everyone I cared about.”
When Herod lifted his hand, the drums and dancing ceased. I heard only my pulse battering my ears, then the king signaled the guards by the door and pointed to me. For a wild and hopeful instant I thought his gesture meant those men would be dispatched to take up my cause, then the guards strode forward and stood at my right and left hand.
The king leaned back and reached for another pastry. “Take her away.”
Courage returned as my heart pumped indignation and outrage through my veins. “My king!” I screamed the words, for what did I have to lose? “They killed my daughter-in-law; they ripped the baby from her womb, dashed its brains against a doorpost, and fed its body to the flames! They behaved like animals in one of your peaceful cities, and you will do nothing to intercede for me?”
Slowly, Herod chewed, his eyes narrowing with fury. Hope flared again, then I realized his anger burned toward me, not the Romans, and in a moment I would insult him beyond his capacity for mercy …
I yielded to the sobs that clogged my throat and collapsed as the guards dragged me from Herod’s hall. When we passed the bronze doors at the courtyard, Tirza stepped forward and squeezed my arm so tightly I whimpered in pain.
“Do you value your life, woman?” He snarled in my ear. “If I’d known who you came to accuse, I would never have acted on your behalf.”
“This is not justice.” I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand as the guards left me in Tirza’s custody and slammed the doors. “If Herod does nothing, justice does not exist in Judea.”
“Who said it did?” Tirza’s voice remained low and controlled. “Herod rules at Rome’s pleasure, don’t you understand? He would no sooner act against a Roman centurion than he would walk through the streets naked. You have committed a great folly, woman, and I am sorry to have spoken for you.”
“But I had hoped—”
“Hope is for children and fools. Now get safely away before Herod remembers your insults and seeks you out.”
Still holding my arm, Tirza marched me through the courtyard and thrust me into the street. I found myself standing in the hot sun with an empty scrip around my shoulder and a nearly empty purse tucked into my belt.
My horrible losses, combined with the heaviness of defeat, left me with an inexpressible feeling of hopelessness. I trudged from Herod’s palace and wandered through the streets until I found a trough for animals. I sank to the mud at its edge and splashed water on my tear-streaked face, then sat motionless as a man tied his donkey to a nearby post and walked away without speaking.
The animal drank deeply, ignoring me. A horsefly buzzed around the beast’s ears, then settled on my damp hand.
I stared at the vile fly and considered the raw
sores of my aching heart. Where could I go from here? Magdala held nothing for me but memories and charred ruins. I felt nothing for Tiberias and I had no connections with any other place or people in Eretz-Yisrael.
In less than one month, everything I had been—wife, mother, merchant—had been destroyed. Nothing remained but skin, bones, and bitterness.
I had lost myself.
Not wanting to see Tirza or Dodi again, I slid backward until my spine rested against a wall, then hugged my knees to my chest. With nowhere else to go, I would sit and wait for sunset. Perhaps, if I was lucky, one of the heathens would attempt to rob me and, finding nothing valuable in my purse, would take my life instead.
Chapter Fourteen
The invitation had startled Atticus. In honor of his wife’s birthday, Pontius Pilate, procurator of Judea, wished to invite all officers under his command—centurions and all principales, including those with the rank of signifer, optio, or tesserarius—to a banquet at the palace.
He and Flavius retreated immediately to the baths, where they scraped off the day’s grime before dressing in clean tunics and polished armor.
“Do you think they’ll have meat?” Atticus asked, thinking of the plate of unground corn, or frumentum, that awaited the soldiers at the barracks.
“Who cares?” Flavius waggled his brows. “I want to know if they’ll have dancing girls.”
With light hearts they climbed the steps to the palace, left their helmets in the care of a slave, and entered the grand banquet hall. The governor’s steward had outdone himself. Lamps gleamed from niches in the wall and freestanding pillars, brightening the room nearly as well as the sun itself. White linen cushions covered every reclining couch, and several tables groaned beneath platters of every imaginable delicacy—including, Atticus noticed—beef and chicken and fish. Meat.
Atticus washed his hands in a laver of rose petal-scented water, then accepted a linen hand towel from a servant. A group of harpists stood behind fan-bearing servants, filling the air with a warm, continuous ripple like flowing water. The men stood, hungry and waiting, until the guest of honor appeared on her husband’s arm. Smiling at the assembled soldiers, the Lady Procula followed her husband to a raised dais, then she reclined on her couch.
