by Angela Hunt
The litter bearer must have realized that the preacher’s words would offend me, because he broke into a jog, hurrying us away from the street corner. I clung to the armrests as the litter bumped and swayed, staring at the fabric ceiling as the conveyance passed through a gate in the ancient wall and approached the Temple Mount.
Nada must have read my thoughts, for her gnarled hand fell upon mine. “Pay that man no mind,” she said. “He does not understand anything.”
“He knows the Torah,” I replied, meeting her gaze. “And the people will believe him because he quotes from the Torah and seems a righteous man. But my father was never a slave. Mariamne did not commit suicide, she married my brother, and Alexandra lives willingly in our household. How can he say otherwise?”
“People ignore the truth when it is convenient. And when they do not like the truth, they invent their own version.” Nada released my hand and looked to the opening in the curtain. “Time will prove that man wrong, and the people will open their eyes.”
“He called my mother an Ishmaelite.”
Nada shrugged. “She is Nabataean. Practically the same thing.”
“But it sounds so wrong when he uses that word. The Jews will think of Ishmael, the slave’s son, and they will believe the implication that Mother—and Herod—have taken what rightfully belonged to someone else.”
Nada did not reply, and I knew she remained quiet because she did not want to remind me of what I already suspected. The people in Jerusalem felt that Herod had stolen the Hasmonean throne from the former king, Hyrcanus, his daughter, Alexandra, and her children, Mariamne and Aristobulus.
“Why does that man stand on the street corner and proclaim such lies?” I asked, seething. “Look outside—everyone else is busy working, rebuilding, putting their lives back together. Yet that man stands on a corner and preaches against the king? Why would he do that? Has he no house to rebuild? No wife to mourn? No children to care for?”
“I do not know, my lamb.”
Of course she did not. Nada was trying to placate me, to calm me, and probably wished she had convinced me to stay at the palace and exchange gossip with Pheroras or Joseph.
I probably should have.
I drew a long, quivering breath, then commanded the litter bearers to return to the palace.
Back in my chambers, I sent Nada to find Eurus, a guard who had been assigned to us during our three-year sojourn at Masada. Though he had never attempted to be overly familiar with me, I felt a bond with him, perhaps because we were about the same age. Like me, he had lived through the days when Judea became a Roman province, and like me, he had known more days of war than peace.
Nada returned about an hour later with the guard, who smote his breast and bowed when he saw me. “My lady Salome.”
“It is good to see you, Eurus. How do you like your post in Jerusalem?”
His broad cheeks lifted as he grinned. “Better than the heat of Masada, mistress.”
“Indeed it is.” I gave him a smile, then came straight to the point. “This afternoon Nada and I took a litter into the city. As we rode through the streets, I saw a man standing at a street corner. He was shouting lies about the king—lying even about our mother. I would know more about this man.”
A muscle flicked at Eurus’s jaw. “Do you want him removed?”
“No—people would notice, and that might only cause problems for my brother. I want to know why he has time to stand on the corner while everyone else is busy rebuilding. How does he eat? I was given to understand that food is still scarce in the city. Is someone paying him to say those things or is he some new kind of religious zealot? If that is the case, is he Pharisee, Sadducee, Essene? Or some sort of convert we do not yet know about?”
Eurus nodded. “I will find out at once.”
“One more thing.” I held up my hand. “I would go in a plain tunic, if I were you. You’re not likely to find answers if you venture into the streets wearing Herod’s uniform.”
He flushed, then nodded again. “I will return as soon as I have an answer.”
Chapter Ten
Salome
As the trio of Egyptian dancers leapt and twirled before us, I found myself wishing that kings did not require entertainment at banquets as small as this one. But Herod was still adjusting to his new role, and after three years of being king in name only, he seemed determined to enjoy every royal advantage at his disposal.
When the last dancer landed his final leap, I led the others in applause. “Bravo, thank you, that is enough,” I called, giving my brother a pointed look. “Please allow us time for conversation.”
The head dancer hesitated, looking from me to Herod, and my brother waved the dancers away. “What is this sudden need for talking?” he asked, turning to me as the dancers scampered out of the room. “You know you have only to find me if you have something on your mind.”
I looked around the chamber to see who still remained. We were an intimate group, only family members, but even though we had lost Phasael and Joseph, we could still fill a room. Our mother occupied a couch near the door, Pheroras reclined next to Herod, and Mariamne shared the king’s couch. Alexandra, Mariamne’s mother, shared a couch with Aristobulus, her fifteen-year-old son, and Joseph and I completed the circle on a couch next to my mother.
I would have liked to send Mariamne, Aristobulus, and Alexandra away, yet I did not want to offend Herod.
So I drew a breath and launched my question. “I wanted to know if you’ve heard about the prophecy.”
“Prophecy?” Herod barked a laugh. “Which one? If I had an army for every prophecy I’ve heard, I could conquer Rome.”
“Herod.” Mother gave him a reproachful look. “Those words, if repeated outside this room, would not please the Romans.”
Herod ignored her and grinned at me. “What prophecy is that, sister?”
I sat up straighter. “I did not catch all of it, but it was something about the Temple: ‘He who restores it to the glory of Solomon’s Temple will have the blessing of HaShem, even to the fourth generation.’”
“Four generations, eh?” Herod scratched his bare chin. “An appropriate divine reward.”
“Let us focus on surviving our first year in Jerusalem,” Mother said, her eyes flashing another warning. “These are uncertain times for Judea. Mark Antony has given you a role to play, but only time will reveal if you can make it your own.”
Herod smiled and looked at Pheroras. “And there you have it—another encouraging witticism from our mother.”
Pheroras laughed. “If every bushel of grain held but a single rat turd, you can be sure she will find it.” He went on, talking about some incident from his childhood, but the sight of Eurus coming through the doorway distracted me. He stood inside the room, looking around, then spotted me and nodded.
Adrenaline coursed through my veins as I slipped from my couch and followed the guard into the hallway. “Forgive me for interrupting,” Eurus said, “but I thought you might want to have this information immediately.”
“Indeed I do. What did you learn?”
The guard looked around, then stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Your suspicions were correct, my lady. The man you heard is a shoemaker by trade, but someone paid him a great deal of money to stand on the corner and shout lies about the king. They even provided him with a script.” Eurus pulled a scroll from his tunic. “After I gave the man a few coins to surrender this, he was happy to give it to me.”
“Did he say who gave it to him?”
“He said it came from a servant employed by a wealthy patron. He never learned the identity of the man, but it had to be someone in Jerusalem.”
“Or course.”
I unfurled the leather scroll and saw inked writing. The message had been written in Aramaic, the language of the people, and the handwriting was remarkably fluid. The author—whoever it was—had been well taught, for I could see no unevenness in the writing or the words.
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��I will keep this.” I rolled the scroll and tucked it into a fold of my himation. “And here. For your trouble.” I undid the clasp of my gold bracelet and pressed it into Eurus’s palm.
“No, my lady, I cannot—”
“You had to pay for the scroll, so consider this a reimbursement—and a sign of my deep appreciation.” I smiled. “Thank you again.”
“I live to serve you, lady.”
“I appreciate it, sir. Now go in peace.”
I returned to the banquet, but as I made myself comfortable on my couch, I could think of little but the scroll pressed against my chest. Who hated Herod so much that they would pay a street preacher during a time when every denarius was precious? A wealthy person, obviously. Someone from Jerusalem. An educated person with servants. Jewish, naturally, not Idumaean.
I sighed. Though I had just eliminated thousands of Herod’s subjects, the person I sought was one of hundreds more.
Later that night, I left my cozy fire, wrapped a mantle around my shoulders, and stepped out into the hall. No one stirred in this hallway, so I walked to the end and climbed the narrow stairs that led to the palace rooftop. Guards stood at the far ends but no one walked along the low stone wall that rose over the grand entrance below. I walked toward it, running my hands over the top of the stones and smiling at the memories they evoked.
This palace, which used to house the Hasmonean high priest kings, had occasionally been my playground. John Hyrcanus lived here when he conquered Idumea and annexed our land, making Jews of our people. John Hyrcanus’s heirs, all of them bent on destroying each other, reigned from this house, as did Salome Alexandra. My grandfather served her husband, Alexander Jannaeus, and my father served her son, Hyrcanus. Whenever Phasael, my father’s eldest son, assisted him in some task, Herod, Joseph, Pheroras, and I came up to this rooftop to play, running along the escarpment and tossing pebbles over the edge. I used to watch the pebbles bounce off the stones below while Herod tried to spook horses tied in the courtyard.
But not all my memories of this place were happy ones.
“Imagine finding you here.”
I startled at the sound of Herod’s voice and turned. He was coming through the doorway, our mother on his arm.
“I thought you would be with your wife,” I said, teasing as he nodded at the guards. “Or have you grown tired of her already?”
“I adore her.” He gently guided our mother to the stone wall. “But she is not feeling well. We think—we hope—she may be expecting a child.”
“Well. Congratulations.” I looked at Mother. “Are you pleased with the news?”
“I’ll be pleased when the baby is born.” She released Herod’s arm and straightened, holding her chin high. “I asked Herod to bring me up here. I wanted to talk to him alone.”
“Very well.” I turned toward the stairs. “If there is nothing you need from me—”
“Stay, Salome. By private, I meant without any of Mariamne’s people around. They are like little mice, always listening in the shadows.”
I frowned, not understanding but willing to remain.
“Now, Mother—” Herod began.
“Son.” Mother turned to face him. “Your father taught you to work with your brothers and sister, to support them in all things.”
“You did not bring me up here to talk about Father. What is on your mind?”
Mother grimaced. “I want you to tread carefully around your wife. I do not trust her or Alexandra. I’ve always believed the Hasmoneans had something to do with your father’s death.”
Herod sighed. “We’ve been through this. Malchus poisoned Father. And now he is dead.”
“But the poison was administered at Hyrcanus’s palace. Who gave Malchus permission to speak to the king’s servant? For that matter, who arranged the banquet, if not Hyrcanus?”
Herod threw me a frustrated look, so I stepped closer. “That happened six years ago, Mother. Malchus is dead. Hyrcanus has been exiled. The chapter is closed.”
“Is it?” Even in the cold light of the moon, I could see the flush on Mother’s face. “Hyrcanus’s daughter lives in our house. His granddaughter sleeps in your bed. And I hear you want to bring the old man back.”
“He is harmless,” Herod said. “And his granddaughter may be carrying my son, your grandchild. This baby will bridge the gap between our houses. This union will heal the rift in Judea. Look here, Mother.” He pulled a scroll from his tunic, then unfurled it and spread it on the top of the short stone wall. “See how the house of Hasmon combines with the house of Antipater.”
I glanced at the scroll, now silver in the moonlight. Someone had drawn a family tree with Herod’s family on one side and Mariamne’s on the other. A blank space had been left at the bottom, presumably for the coming child.
“She says you are common,” Mother said, stiffening. “She says you are alien and not really Jewish.”
For a moment I felt a surge of memory, a momentary epiphany. Something surfaced in my mind, then disappeared. Something I’d remembered? Something I’d forgotten . . .
My eyes fell on the parchment, where a neat hand had written the names of Hasmonean kings and queens. The pieces fell into place. I placed one hand over my garment and felt the small scroll beneath my fingertips.
I tapped the diagram with my other hand. “Who wrote this?”
Herod looked at me. “Why does it matter?”
“Who wrote this, brother?”
He blew out a breath. “Alexandra. She was thrilled with the news about the baby.”
I took a deep breath and felt a dozen different emotions collide. “She called you common. Alien.”
“Salome.” Herod gave me a warning look. “I’m sure Mother misunderstood—”
“I’m not referring to what Mother said.” I pulled the scroll from my himation and unfurled it. “I heard a street preacher denouncing you with those same words. I sent Eurus to investigate, and he learned the man was paid to rail against you, to lie about you. The person who paid him sent these words to use in his denunciation.”
Herod glanced at the scroll, then looked at Mother. She seemed to have grown taller in the moonlight, her eyes gleaming as if to say, Do not doubt what you cannot deny.
“The handwriting, Herod—it is the same.” I tapped both scrolls. “Alexandra wrote both of these. On one scroll she plans your future, and on the other she condemns you.”
Herod scoffed. “This makes no sense. Why would she do both?”
“Because,” Mother answered, “she wants another heir. She has a son and daughter. Why not have a grandchild? She will place one of them on the seat of power.”
“Bah!” Herod turned away. “I will not listen to this.”
Mother gave me a quick look, then walked toward her son. “You do not have to listen to us, but do not be blind to the danger. Enjoy your wife. Celebrate your son. But do not trust Alexandra—the woman neither loves nor supports you.”
Herod looked back at me. “You agree with her?”
“I do.” I took a step closer. “And know this, brother—even though you do not believe me, with my last breath, I will protect and defend you. You may not be willing to see the danger, but I have nothing to lose by being vigilant. So I will be. I will not let any of the Hasmoneans take what is rightfully yours.”
Mother shook her head, a question in her eyes. “Why, daughter, would you do what your brother will not do for himself?”
I sighed. “Because he once did it for me.”
As a little girl, I loved visiting the palace. I would often go with my father and my brothers on festival days, or other days when Father had work to do and the king and his family were occupied at the Temple.
One day—I was around seven—I was wandering the wide halls of the palace alone when I spotted Alexandra, who must have been nearly old enough to be wed. She was with a young man about her age, probably a servant, and laughing with him in an overly familiar manner. Then she turned her head and saw me.
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Though the passing years have dulled many of my memories, this one remained as sharp as a needle. Alexandra stared at me, her eyes narrowing, and then she said, in a voice dripping with disdain, “It is only one of the Idumaean brats.”
The servant looked at me. “She’s a pretty little thing.”
“Really?” Alexandra cocked her head. “You must have unrefined tastes.”
Something in the servant’s eyes made me want to run, but fear immobilized me. Father always warned us to stay out of sight and not to interfere with the king’s family or his servants. If I ran to Father, he would know I’d done something wrong, yet to stay in the hallway felt dangerous, especially with that odd gleam in the young man’s eyes.
The servant laughed again, and the sound of his laughter sent a chill up the ladder of my spine. “It is only a little brat.”
Alexandra blew out a breath. “Do whatever you want, but make her disappear afterward.”
As Alexandra strode away toward the staircase, the servant gave me a smirk. I lowered my gaze, afraid to look at his face, but I heard the slap of his sandals on the tile and then I saw his feet in front of mine, blocking my way. Keeping my head down, I stepped to the right, but he quickly moved in front of me. I stepped to the left, and he did the same. When I turned to run, his hand gripped my upper arm. Then his other arm hoisted me onto his hip. I dared not scream, for the noise would attract attention and displease my father, and though I kicked and squirmed I could not escape his grip, not even when he propped me in a wall niche and his hands gripped my knees and pried them apart . . .
Before I knew what was happening, Herod appeared behind the youth, his hand clapping the servant’s shoulder, spinning him around. Herod’s fist landed on the servant’s jaw, snapping his chin up and back, and I heard a crack as the youth’s head hit the hard floor. He rolled over, groaning, and Herod kicked his ribs until he made no more noise. My brother then looked at me, his eyes swimming with concern. I threw my arms around his neck and clung to him as he lifted me out of the niche and carried me into the courtyard. He placed me in our wagon, then said something to Joseph and Pheroras. Pheroras, being the youngest boy, stayed with me while Herod and Joseph walked back into the house.
