by Angela Hunt
I sat in the wagon, silently crying, until Pheroras gave me a cloth to blow my nose and wipe my face. I had calmed myself by the time Father came out with Phasael. He looked around, his brows crinkling with concern. “Where are Herod and Joseph?”
Before we could answer, my missing brothers appeared, walking naturally, smiling and flushed, appearing as though they had been having great fun in the barn or elsewhere on the property. Father grunted and gestured for them to climb in the wagon. We went home without speaking a word to Father about what had happened.
We never spoke about that incident, and later, when I was older, I often wondered if it had been nothing but a bad dream.
But whenever I saw Alexandra and the hard light in her eyes, I remembered her cold cruelty. Though she probably had no recollection of that afternoon, and probably had no knowledge of what happened after she left, I would never forget it.
Nor would I ever allow her—or any Hasmonean—to hurt my brother Herod.
Chapter Eleven
Salome
Two years passed—years in which Herod welcomed his first two sons from Mariamne, extensively renovated the former Hasmonean palace, and put me and Pheroras to work. The king placed Pheroras in charge of Alexandreion, a fortified palace that had been built by the Hasmoneans and razed by Mark Antony and Gabinus when they fought against Alexander, Alexandra’s husband. Situated on the northwestern border of Judea, the fortress had been a defensive tower, but Herod told Pheroras to make sure it offered appropriate living space. Defense was not the priority it had been in the days of the Maccabees, for Rome had brought peace to the world. Herod wanted his fortresses to be lavish and livable.
My brother asked me to take charge of furnishing the three towers he was building at the northernmost point of his future palace. Named Phasaelis, Mariamne, and Hippicus, the lower part of each tower was designed to house soldiers and weapons. The upper part of each would be outfitted like a palace, no expense spared. I was thrilled with the opportunity to serve my brother and determined to make those rooms as luxurious as possible.
Herod’s primary concern in those years was laboring to make his people love him. He laid out plans to improve the lives of Jerusalem’s citizens with a theater, a hippodrome, extensive aqueducts, and beautiful shopping areas. All his architecture would feature Corinthian and Doric columns, lavish interior decoration featuring painted walls and mosaic tiles, and open spaces for public entertainment. But no matter what he built, he would not ignore the Jews’ religious sensibilities—no graven images would exist in his buildings. Though he was a Hellene to his core, many of his people were not.
Pheroras, Joseph, and I were his chief counselors and the only people he trusted without reservation. Not even Mariamne, who had borne him two handsome sons and was expecting again, could advise him on political matters. Yet our family had been students of royal politics since the first Antipater served Alexander Jannaeus.
In those days I believe Herod trusted me even more than Joseph or Pheroras. Joseph tended to be conservative in his opinions; he wanted to remain steady even when a situation called for moving forward. Pheroras had a different sort of weakness—he never seemed to have opinions of his own but would poll the table and then pretend he had agreed with the strongest plan all along.
While Joseph and Pheroras focused on small issues, Herod and I kept our eyes on the larger picture. I was keenly aware of how carefully my brother maneuvered under twin threats: the unspoken and ever-present pressure from Rome, which did not look favorably on client kings who could not keep peace in the provinces, and the pressure from the Jews, who did not look favorably on kings who were not sons of Jacob.
To keep the peace in Judea, Herod had to rely primarily on his own forces, for involving the resident Roman legion meant the authorities in Rome would hear about whatever trouble had arisen. Still, Herod’s men, most of whom were Idumaean, were never well received by the people, for they saw Idumaeans as ill-begotten outsiders. Whenever Herod’s men marched through the streets, the women of Jerusalem spat at them, children ran in terror, and old men thrust out their wizened chests and dared the king’s men to strike them. Herod cautioned his men not to respond to such taunts because he wanted to win the people’s goodwill, a task that was proving as impossible as counting the waves of the sea. The Jews saw Herod as many things—a stranger and usurper, a son of Esau, a puppet of the Romans—none of them good.
To further complicate Herod’s early days, nearly every family in Jerusalem had either lost someone during the siege or had their home looted or destroyed. Months passed before the rebuilding and the mourning ended. “The Jews might call themselves the chosen people,” Herod quipped one day, “but they do not choose to forgive.”
I must admit, Herod did not help his cause when he took possession of the gold and silver vessels in the Temple. He had prevented the Romans from looting the sacred objects, but when he took them himself, I feared the people would riot. With Herod ignoring my advice, I voiced my concerns to Joseph, who advised Herod by expressing a similar caution.
Herod would not be dissuaded. “Who paid the men in my army for three years?” he retorted. “Who fed you and your servants during that time? Who rewarded Mark Antony and the underlings beneath him? I did. And now that I am king, the people must repay me for all I have sacrificed to govern them. In time, they will thank me for the privilege.”
I had vowed to protect Herod from those who would harm him, but how could I protect him from himself? In truth, he had a point—he had spent everything he owned to claim the throne, but Rome was not likely to reimburse him. So the money had to come from the people of Judea.
In those early months of his reign, Herod spent a great deal of his time weeding out dissenters, at least those who were brave enough to speak against him publicly. He established a web of spies, informers, and captains and charged them with reporting anyone foolish enough to openly speak ill of Herod. Within days, perhaps hours, such a man would be executed before the king or on his way to the dungeon. Dissent, Herod declared, would not be allowed.
He continued to reward those who had been loyal to him and our father before him. He sought the few residents of Jerusalem who had been supportive of his cause and gave them a place in the king’s court. He vowed to surround himself with people he could trust.
One afternoon I answered a knock at my door and found a stranger outside, his back turned toward me. His garment was rough, his sandals made of papyrus, and his hands unadorned.
I gasped when he turned, and I recognized Herod beneath the tattered head covering.
“Come,” he said, his face lighting as he gave me a sly smile. “Let us go into the streets and hear what the people have to say about their new king.”
I blinked. “Go out—like that?”
“We cannot go as the king and his sister; we must go in disguise. Quickly, Salome, pull on a rough garment and cover your hair. I want to walk the streets as the people are returning to their homes.”
I brought him into my apartment, then bade him wait while I opened a trunk and looked for something simple. I finally found a plain tunic and a rough length of woven wool. I covered my curled hair with the wool, removed my jewelry, and stood before my king.
“Scrub your face,” he said, examining me. “You must look like an ordinary woman.”
Grumbling beneath my breath, I took a towel from my dressing table and scrubbed the color from my cheeks, lips, and lashes. When I looked as plain as a milkmaid, Herod grunted his approval. “We will go out through the servants’ entrance,” he said. “Only Eurus will go with us.”
And so we went out. Eurus had removed his uniform, so we looked like three ordinary people as we passed through the gates of the palace and into the street beyond.
I had never walked through Jerusalem before. Even as a child, my father brought us to the palace in his cart or wagon, so walking among the people was a new experience. I pulled the edge of the woolen scarf over my nose and mou
th, ostensibly to block the dust, but mainly to disguise my features as I stared at the city’s inhabitants with wide eyes. For some reason, I had expected to see expressions of dislike and arrogant superiority on every face. Instead I saw life in all its forms: the sweat-streaked faces of working men, the furrowed brows of middle-aged women closing up their market booths, the tired smiles of young mothers carrying their toddlers on their hips as they trudged toward their homes.
We stepped aside for donkeys laden with baskets, mule-drawn carts, and a line of blind men, each man holding tight to the shoulder of the man in front of him. Their free hands held tin cups, still hoping for a coin or two as they made their way to wherever they would spend the night.
At one point, Eurus thrust out his arm, halting Herod and me as a woman flung a bowl of human waste out the window onto the street below. I crinkled my nose as the fecal matter splattered over the cobblestones, mixing with the mule and donkey dung.
“That is horrible,” I said, pressing my hand over my nose.
Herod tossed me a wicked grin. “Aye. But they do the same thing even on the streets of Rome.”
Herod bade Eurus stop at a street corner. A few feet away, a couple of black-robed Pharisees stood together, their lined faces taut with intensity. Herod edged closer to hear what subject had captured their attention, then turned his back to the men so he could pretend he was talking to me. I went along with the charade, quietly whispering nonsense so Herod could hear the men’s conversation. I exhaled in relief when I realized they were not discussing the king but whether or not the Law permitted a woman to put extra logs on her fire after sunset on the Sabbath.
Herod listened, shook his head, and moved on. We walked for nearly an hour, traversing the city streets and walking through narrow alleys as we listened at doorways and open windows, until the sun disappeared behind the rooftops and the streets emptied. During that time no one stopped us or remarked upon us in our hearing. My heart warmed to know that this time at least, Herod had heard nothing to upset him.
He told Eurus to lead us back to the palace. I lengthened my stride to keep up with the two men. “Have you done this before?”
Herod grunted. “Only when necessary.”
I snatched a breath as we climbed uphill. “Whatever makes it necessary for you to disguise yourself? You are the king!”
“A king can trust no one.” His frown relaxed when he realized to whom he was speaking. “Except, perhaps, his sister.”
“I suppose I can understand why you do this, but surely it is not wise. You will not always like what you hear.”
“Do you think I don’t know that? I need to hear what my people are saying about me. A clever man knows what his enemies are thinking. Such knowledge is priceless.”
I stared at him, recognizing the irony he refused to see. Did he know what his wife and mother-in-law were saying about him in the palace? Was he aware of the disdain at the core of their hearts, or would he simply not accept it?
One day I sent for my handmaid in early afternoon because the king was giving a banquet and expected his family to attend.
Nada, who had grown slower in the last two years, found me at my dressing table, trying on earrings. Because I’d grown weary of waiting, chitons and himations covered the bed behind me.
Nada took in the mess with one sharp glance. “Has my beautiful girl decided what she will wear?”
I gave my reflection one last appraisal, then lowered the earrings I’d been holding up to my ears. “No. But Herod insists we all be on our best behavior, so it’s important I look like a king’s sister. We have a guest—an old friend of Mark Antony.”
Nada pulled the comb from my hair, allowing it to tumble over my shoulders. “Have you met this guest before?”
I shook my head. “He’s a soldier; apparently he and Antony fought together once. But Herod fears this Quintus Dellius has come to spy on him, so everything must be perfect. Including the king’s family.” I regarded the chitons on the bed, then pointed to a gown of ivory linen. “What do you think of that one? I could wear the blue-and-green himation. And the green earrings.”
Nada squinted for a moment, then nodded. “And how will you wear your hair?”
I turned to consider my burnished image in the looking brass. “Down, I think. With the top drawn back and braided. Something artistic, to catch the man’s eye.”
“Something old-fashioned.”
I bit my tongue as sharp words leapt to my lips. In truth, Nada did not know how to create any modern styles, yet I did not want to chide her. Not tonight.
“Something simple,” I said, hoping Quintus Dellius would be charmed by a plain hairstyle.
Nada picked up a comb, her hand trembling as she ran it through my hair. “The color is holding nicely, do not you think? The henna makes it feel stronger, too.”
“Umm.” Her comment barely registered because I was no longer thinking about hair but about our Roman visitor. I caught Nada’s hand and turned to face her. “When the banquet is finished, I would like you to follow this Quintus Dellius and tell me what he does.”
She blanched. “Follow a Roman?”
“He will be pleasant and genial at the banquet,” I said, releasing her. “But after dinner, he will perform whatever tasks his master has asked him to perform. I’m quite certain Antony did not send this man all the way to Judea to report on the king’s banquet.”
Though I had never asked such a thing before, I knew Nada would do anything I asked.
The next morning I was not surprised when Nada told me what happened after the banquet.
“Alexandra,” she said, drawing out the woman’s name. “The stick in your brother’s throat. She met Quintus Dellius after dinner and invited him to her chamber.”
“Did they know each other before last night?” I asked.
Nada shook her head. “It matters not. What matters is the man paid more attention to Alexandra than to you, my lamb. The man is either blind or he has no sense.”
I blew out a frustrated breath. While I appreciated Nada’s loyalty, she had always had trouble seeing beyond the latest gossip about who was bedding whom. She was oblivious to the powerful currents swirling around us now that we were swimming with Romans.
“What matters,” I corrected her, “is that Quintus is a friend to Antony, and Antony is enamored with Cleopatra. And Cleopatra and Alexandra are close friends.”
Nada stared, openmouthed. “I . . . I did not know.”
I plucked a piece of bread from the tray she had brought from the kitchen. “Apparently those two are united in their dislike of my brother. Fortunately, Antony is not so infatuated with the Egyptian that he allows her to have her way in everything. Now, let me think.” I took a bite of bread and stared out the window. “What did Quintus Dellius discuss with Alexandra?” I turned back to my maid and lifted a brow. “I know how you servants talk. Have you heard rumors?”
Nada drew a wheezing breath. “I did speak with Mava this morning. She served them last night.”
“Mariamne’s handmaid?”
“Yes.”
“Mariamne was with Alexandra and Quintus Dellius?”
“Mava said nothing untoward happened; the queen’s virtue was quite safe. Quintus Dellius behaved like a noble man. He did not sleep with the queen or the queen’s mother.”
I snorted softly. Adultery was not on the long list of concerns I had about Mariamne. “Apparently, Dellius has heard of my brother’s unforgiving jealousy. So what did they talk about?”
Nada drew another breath. “Nothing untoward, mistress. The Roman complimented Alexandra on her children’s beauty. According to Mava, Alexandra was most pleased.”
“Of course she was.” I gritted my teeth. “What else did they say?”
Nada leaned against the wall as if my questions had wearied her. “The Roman suggested Alexandra hire an artist to paint two portraits, one of each of her children. He said he would take them to Antony, or, if such paintings could not be
hastily arranged, she should have them sent to Antony. He was certain Antony would be favorably impressed.”
An inner alarm lifted the hair on my arms. “Why would she send their portraits to Antony? This can’t be about marriage, for Mariamne is already married and Aristobulus is too young to be wed.”
“The Roman . . .” Nada hesitated.
“Go on.”
“The Roman said Mark Antony had an eye for feminine and masculine beauty. And while he would never attempt to take Mariamne from Herod, if Herod were killed in battle or if he should befall some misfortune—”
“Enough.” I closed my eyes and pressed my lips together. So this was about marriage—or rather, about getting Alexandra’s royal children on a throne as soon as possible. The Hasmoneans would be kings again when Alexandra’s grandsons took the throne, but apparently Alexandra did not want to wait. I turned back to Nada. “If you can, find out if Alexandra is having these portraits painted.”
“She is, mistress. I met an artist in the hall this morning. He was excited to be working for the queen’s mother.”
“By all the gods, that woman is impossible.” I clenched my fist and stood, then paced at the foot of my bed. “This will come to no good. Alexandra is trying to usurp Herod’s authority, and she is using her friendship with Cleopatra to do it. Antony would have no use for that arrogant woman if not for his pagan Egyptian lover.”
Nada remained silent but wiped a trickle of perspiration from her forehead. “Mistress?”
“Mmm?”
“May I leave you now? The morning is hot and I did not sleep much last night.”
I waved her away, too perturbed with Alexandra’s scheme to worry about my handmaid.
