by Angela Hunt
Herod clapped for a slave, who stepped forward with a steaming chicken carcass on a plate. My brother grimaced as he broke off a leg, then used two hands to crack the breast. He grunted in satisfaction, handing half of the dripping breast to Mariamne, who gingerly accepted it with two fingers.
Now that the king had commenced eating, the rest of us took food from various trays and began our meal. When Herod almost immediately lowered the breastbone and wiped his hands on a linen square, however, I couldn’t help but wonder what occupied his thoughts. He usually ate his fill before speaking, so something important had to be on his mind. Was it the business with Antony? Had he already received a reply?
Without warning, Herod sat up and braced his hands on his knees. “Alexandra,” he called, his voice ringing in the room. “Stand and face your king!”
In that moment, I felt reluctant admiration for the woman. Despite the iron in Herod’s voice, she did not flinch, tremble, or even look up at him. She simply lowered her food, wiped her fingers on a towel, and stood slowly in one smooth motion. Then she looked at him with an expression as blank as a sheet of parchment.
She was either utterly fearless or completely false.
“Alexandra,” Herod said, holding her firmly in his gaze, “I have shown great forbearance toward you because of the great love I have for my wife, your daughter. But I have asked these men here—” he gestured to several guests, including Joseph, Pheroras, and Ananel, the current high priest—“to act as a tribunal. Let them hear what I have to say, and let them judge you, for I cannot.”
The unlined face showed no emotion, but Alexandra seemed to pale in the flickering torchlight.
“I accuse you,” Herod went on, his voice like iron, “of conspiring to dilute my royal authority, granted by the Roman Senate, in favor of your son, Aristobulus. I also accuse you of plotting with Cleopatra, queen of Egypt, to drive me from the throne so that she can extend her territories into Judea. Do you deny either of these charges?”
Silence fell over us like a heavy blanket. Alexandra lowered her gaze. If not for a trembling of her lower garments—I believe her knees were shaking—I would have thought her completely unafraid.
When she looked up once more, the eyes staring out at us had gone wide with terror. “I have not sought to unseat you, my king,” she said, her voice tattered. “How foolish I would have been to undertake such a thing because my family is safe with you. I and my children have rested beneath your protection for years, and you have not allowed us to be harmed in these times of turmoil and unrest.”
Herod harrumphed and crossed his arms. “You would be foolish to undertake rebellion against the anointed king. So how do you account for the reports that have recently reached my ears?”
“Reports?”
“From Mark Antony, who asks about your children.”
The woman glanced around the room as if she could find a fuller explanation on another face. When her eyes lit on me, they narrowed as if to say, So you know. But you have not won.
She looked back at Herod and sniffed as tears slipped from her lashes and rolled over her cheeks. “I admit I have tried to gain advancement for Aristobulus, but only because he is a suitable candidate to be cohen gadol. To ignore him—to pretend he does not exist—is to dishonor him, my king. It is to dishonor the young man you profess to love as your own brother. But if my actions have offended you, I am sorry and beg your forgiveness.”
Herod drew a deep breath, then shot me a warning glance.
I wanted to caution him, to tell him Alexandra was cleverer than he suspected, but I knew I should not give sisterly advice in a public place.
Herod did not wait to hear from his hastily appointed tribunal. His generous nature, coupled with the anxious look from his beautiful and pregnant wife, resolved the matter. “I accept your apology and extend my forgiveness to you.” Herod uncrossed his arms and settled into a more relaxed posture. “Let us be content with where we are and be perfect friends again. I will grant your request and appoint Aristobulus high priest, for I have no desire to dishonor my wife’s brother. Consider your wish granted.”
I glanced at Ananel, who sat blinking at this sudden and unexpected turn of events.
Herod turned to the high priest, as well. “Ananel, you are to return to your former post in Babylon. Thank you for your service to HaShem and to your king.”
The old man opened his mouth as if to protest, but the saving grace of second thought must have restrained him.
I looked over at Hyrcanus, whose nominee had just been rejected. The old man was staring down at the cup in his hand. He would say nothing. He had given Herod good advice, while Alexandra outmaneuvered both of them.
I took another bite of my bread and chewed slowly, amazed that the woman had managed to sway my brother from anger to generosity in less time than it took to drink a glass of wine. Did she understand my brother’s generous nature as well as I, or had she stumbled into his mercy purely by chance?
I tilted my head and quietly studied our new queen’s mother. Tall, elegant, and quick-thinking, Alexandra was not the sort of woman to be underestimated.
I found my brothers in the spacious reception room, where Herod received visitors. Joseph, my husband, was with them.
“Did you mean it?” Joseph was asking, his face flushed. “You will appoint Aristobulus as high priest?”
“He’s only a child,” Pheroras grumbled. “A handsome boy, but still a boy.”
“He is seventeen,” Herod snapped. “Kings have been crowned at younger ages.”
“But he is a Hasmonean,” I inserted, daring to jump into the conversation. “Have you forgotten how they hate us? Even now they treat us with disdain. Especially Alexandra—”
“I am married to a Hasmonean.” Herod’s eyes flashed at me. “I will not have you criticize my wife’s mother.”
“No? Nor her brother? Pheroras is right; Aristobulus is too young to be high priest. He is barely a man.”
Herod set his jaw. “He has other priests to guide him.”
“The other priests will teach him to hate us,” Joseph said, his dark eyes locked on Herod. “They will teach him to despise you. And when he is old enough to figure out that he has the people’s support, he will lead a revolt against you.”
“The people will understand that I am doing this for them—and for my wife.” Herod sank into a chair, then shifted so he could stretch his muscular legs. “They will see that my love for Mariamne is so great that I am willing to give her brother the title of cohen gadol. They will support this action and love me for it.”
“Will they?” Joseph folded his arms. “Is that a risk you can afford to take?”
We stood in a silence so thick the only sound was the rumble of Pheroras’s belly. Then Herod sighed, leaned forward on his knees, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Truth be told, I am not appointing the lad because of Mariamne,” he said, a note of defeat echoing in his voice. “A king is not commanded by his wife. I am appointing the boy because I know the action will please Antony.”
I lifted a brow. So . . . a king might not be commanded by his wife, but he can be commanded by his master.
Pheroras and I looked at each other without speaking. Herod did not have to explain further; we understood his relationship with the Roman. Herod served Mark Antony as any slave serves his master—filled with hope that his hard work and dutiful obedience will result in reward and greater freedom. Our father served Hyrcanus and Julius Caesar, and now Herod served Antony, who was part of the triumvirate that ruled the world from Rome.
“Why does Antony care so much about the position of high priest?” Pheroras asked. “I have never known any Roman to take anything more than a passing interest in our worship.”
“Our God doesn’t interest him,” Herod replied, “but Cleopatra incites his lusts.”
“I still do not understand.” Pheroras looked from Herod to me. “Why should Antony care who holds the office?”
�
��Have you forgotten?” Herod shook his head. “Alexandra is a friend to Cleopatra. Apparently my mother-in-law has written the queen, who asked Antony to grant her request regarding Aristobulus. So whether the action pleases me or not, Aristobulus shall be our high priest.”
Herod’s weary eyes came to rest on mine as he smiled. “Ah, you women . . . you wield your powers unfairly.”
“And you do not?” I teased him in an effort to hide my displeasure at this turn of events, then sank to the footrest at my brother’s feet. “How fares your pregnant wife?”
“She is content.” Herod stared at an empty patch of air as though he were imagining something in its place. “She believes this child may be another son, and she is thrilled to know her brother will be high priest. So even if she gives birth to a daughter, she is a happy woman. For now.”
I lowered my gaze, respecting his weariness. Herod did not share everything about his marital relationship, yet I was certain he shared more than most brothers. Our father had always stressed family unity, constantly reminding us that we needed each other, so we should put family first in all things. We did, usually, and trusted each other implicitly.
“I am certain Cleopatra would love to be rid of me,” Herod added, abruptly lifting his head. “That is why I must remain Mark Antony’s friend, be the one who pleases him in all things. If that means I must keep Cleopatra happy, then . . .” He shrugged.
Pheroras shook his head. “Even appoint Aristobulus as high priest? When you know the people will adore him and despise you?”
Herod slammed his fist on the chair’s armrest. “You are wrong about that. I have married a Hasmonean heiress, I have brought her mother into the royal house, and I have placed her brother in a high position. I have brought Hyrcanus back to Jerusalem, where he can live out his life in peace. What more can I do to satisfy their hunger for the Hasmoneans?”
“Die,” I whispered, lifting my gaze to meet his. “That is the only thing that will please those stiff-necked people. The Jews will never accept you, Herod, and it has nothing to do with what you have done or not done. They despise you because you are a son of Esau and their God said, ‘Jacob have I loved, and Esau I have hated.’ So they hate you, as well.”
“You are wrong, sister.” Herod wagged his finger at me. “In time you will see how wrong you are.”
“I would love to be wrong,” I answered, standing. “But I do not believe I am.”
Chapter Fourteen
Salome
You there! Girl!”
The flustered slave turned at the sound of my voice and squeaked like a frightened mouse. “Did you speak to me, mistress?”
“Do you see anyone else in the hallway? Nada is late. Have you seen her?”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Who?”
“My handmaid. Her rooms are the largest in the servants’ quarters, so you must know her. Have you seen her?”
The girl shook her head.
“Then fetch her at once. Tell her that her mistress grows weary with waiting.”
The girl scurried away, her sandaled feet slapping the tiled floor. I sighed and retreated back into my chamber, then sat and stared into my looking brass. My hair was a riotous mess, dark circles ringed my eyes, and I desperately needed wine to soothe my headache. Where was that woman?
I stood and paced back and forth in the room. Nada had not been herself the past few days. She had been slower than usual, slower even than the cook who brought me fruit and cheese every morning. Several times I saw Nada clutching the bedpost as if she were feeling dizzy, but then she straightened when she caught me studying her.
Nada couldn’t be sick. I would not allow it.
Where was that idiotic slave? She’d had time to find Nada and return with a report.
I picked up a comb and swiped at my curly hair, then gave up and threw the comb across the room. Only Nada had ever been able to make my wild hair obey. Only she knew how I liked things. Only she knew everything about me, so what would I do if she were ill? I’d have to send for a physician, of course. And find someone to take care of her while she recovered from whatever ailed her. Perhaps, as a kindness, I might go to the servants’ quarters and spoon soup into her mouth, as she had always done when I fell ill . . .
I stepped into the hallway, looked left and right, and screamed in frustration. “Girl! Where are you?”
No answer.
I threw a cloak over my nightdress and strode down the hallway in my bare feet, not caring who saw me. Let the servants talk. Let Mariamne’s ladies gossip. I was Herod’s sister, and he would never rebuke me for something as foolish as this. And if I found Nada asleep, I would pull her off the bed and whip her myself.
I stepped outside and headed toward the stone building with plain walls. The entry hall was narrow, dimly lit, and smelled faintly of urine. I crinkled my nose and nearly turned back, but frustration drove me forward. The slaves lived on the ground floor, with the hired servants occupying the floor above, so I crept up the stone staircase and counted doors as I moved down the hall. Nada slept in the fifth room, one of the largest and most pleasantly furnished. I opened the door and nearly ran headlong into the frightened slave I’d sent to find my handmaid.
“Mistress! I—I was just about to return to you.”
I ignored the girl and walked to the bed, where Nada lay with her head on a pillow. Her jaw was slack, her mouth open, and her yellow teeth visible because the skin had receded. Her pale eyes stared fixedly at the beams in the ceiling.
The sight was a bucket of cold water poured over my anger. Though I had been perspiring all morning, I felt suddenly slick with a different kind of sweat, the sour, cold dampness of dread. Nada was dead, and had probably been dead for some time.
I knew she was gone—no one could look like that and live—but I couldn’t help whispering her name. “Nada?” I touched her shoulder and felt sharp bone through the thin nightdress. No warmth lingered in her body, no softness. Only cold skin and rigid limbs.
“By the crud beneath Qaus’s toes.” I pulled away, recoiling from the sight. How could death have come so unexpectedly? She should have been sick, bedridden, and given me a chance to care for her, to demonstrate that I had learned to care for others from her example . . .
“Nada,” I whispered from a safe distance, “why did you die without warning me?”
No reply from the corpse, only squeaky words from the slave girl. “Death comes for all of us, mistress.”
“Hmm?”
“Death comes—”
“I know, girl. Be quiet.” Blinking back tears, I looked around the room, hoping the gruesome thing on the bed would vanish and I would turn to find Nada sitting up, her hands warm, her voice sharp as she scolded me for venturing into the servants’ quarters.
But when I looked back again, the corpse was still there, accompanied now by a discernible odor.
An unexpected fount rose in my chest, a geyser of hysterical laughter and grief, and my knees gave way beneath the increasing pressure. I sank to the floor and sobbed with my hands over my face, unwilling to look at the thing on the bed . . .
One thought ran through my mind, over and over. Why hadn’t I come to check on her last night? I had heard her coughing, I saw her weakening, I should have known she was not well. But I was focused on other things and simply did not take time for her, when it would have been so easy to do so. While she lay here dying, I had been sleeping, or eating, or doing nothing. If I had come, if I had sent for a physician, if I had taken a single moment to think of her, she might not have died.
I do not know how long I wept on the floor, but when the wellspring ceased to flow, I dried my face and stood. The slave girl remained with me, crouched in the corner. Her eyes widened when I looked her way.
“Call the guards,” I told her, my voice broken. “Have them prepare Nada for burial. Tell them she is not to be treated like a slave but embalmed and prepared for a royal tomb. She will sleep with me for eternity, but until I am re
ady to go, she will have to wait.”
I moved to the door, feeling as though I had aged ten years in the last hour. On reaching the doorway, I turned to take one last look at the woman who had cared for me since the hour of my birth. How old was she, sixty-five, sixty-six? She never had children, never married. I had been her child, her family, her life. She had never failed me . . . until today.
But I had failed her when I left her to die alone.
That afternoon Herod entered my chamber unannounced and seemed not to notice my red eyes or that I was completely alone and sleeping.
“What do you think?” he asked, sinking to the edge of my bed. Facing away from me, he spread his hands in a gesture of confusion. “I have given them what they want, but still they look at me as though I have slighted them somehow.”
I lifted my head from my pillow and swiveled my eyes toward the looking brass on my dressing table. “Who are we talking about?” I asked his blurry reflection. “Your wives or your people?”
He grunted. “Both. I have announced Aristobulus as our next high priest. I have sent the Babylonian back to his people. Before he left, Ananel reminded me that he was from the line of Zadok, but Aristobulus is not. I know Ananel’s lineage works in his favor, but what could I do? Alexandra will give me no rest until she sees her son offering sacrifices in the Temple.”
“Then let it happen sooner rather than later.” I got out of bed and went to my chair so I could sit and face him. “My handmaid has died. The one who has been with me since my birth.”
Herod’s frown made me wonder if he was trying to remember Nada or trying to forget I’d mentioned her. “Can’t you get another?”
I sighed. Herod cared nothing about servants, especially women’s handmaids. “I will get someone else. Eventually.” I pushed my unruly hair out of my eyes and wearily regarded him. “I should have cared for her. She died alone in her room.”
