by Angela Hunt
Now Alexandra ruled over the entire complex, the two palaces having been combined into one grand estate. The setting was lovely, and as I stepped out of the carriage I couldn’t help admiring the stately two-story buildings. Joseph and I waited for Herod and his men to dismount and enter the complex and then we followed.
The first structure featured an inner courtyard with an open reception area at its southern end. Alexandra had prepared a feast in the reception room, where dozens of white-robed servants stood with heavy trays, waiting to serve. Several upholstered couches had been scattered about the room, with those near the center arranged in a semicircle. Herod naturally took the seat at the center, Mariamne sharing his couch. Aristobulus, now wearing a simple white robe that set off his olive skin and dark hair, sat across from them, his mother at his right hand.
While I did not like Mariamne, Alexandra, or this young priest, I could not deny the young man was handsome enough to awaken a carnal desire in any woman with a heartbeat. For an instant I wondered if Herod might be convinced to let me marry the boy. But no, for not even the Law would allow such a marriage. The high priest had to marry a virgin, and if by some miracle I could be proclaimed a virgin, another Hasmonean-Herodian coupling might produce an heir to rival Herod’s children, and my brother would not tolerate a rival.
And I would not let him.
No, young Aristobulus would undoubtedly marry some devout Jewish virgin from an upstanding family. Alexandra would arrange everything.
Herod’s noisy friends settled onto the outer couches, and Alexandra’s nostrils flared as she studied the crew who had arrived with us. I was sure she wanted to rebuke Herod for bringing them. But they were the king’s friends and who dared rebuke the king? Herod had invited them, and a good hostess could only welcome them, even as they indulged themselves at her expense.
The thought made my mouth curve in a wry smile. Perhaps that was why Herod invited them. If Alexandra wanted to flaunt her beautiful palace, her wealth, and her illustrious history, let her show off to a group of young men who knew little about her and cared nothing for her.
My gaze shifted to Mariamne, who said little and ate slowly, keeping her eyes downcast. She fairly dripped disapproval of the raucous men scattered throughout the room, and yet what could she say? Her brother, Israel’s own high priest, was laughing heartily at their jokes, and his countenance was flushed and merry. The lad had to be relieved—he had pulled off his first water ceremony without any mistakes, the people had loved him, and his future success seemed assured. No wonder Alexandra’s son was in high spirits.
“Aristobulus, have more wine.” Herod took a pitcher from a servant’s tray and offered it to the lad. “Drink up. You deserve it.”
Aristobulus, his eyes shining, held out his cup as Herod sloshed wine into the vessel. I studied my brother. He had appeared as sober as an executioner before we left Jerusalem, and I doubted he had imbibed on the journey. How had he become inebriated?
I lifted a questioning brow when he caught my eye. He only smiled and lifted the pitcher higher. “We drink today to celebrate the marvelous success of Aristobulus, my brother-in-law and Israel’s latest high priest. May his office continue forever!”
A half-dozen cups were raised in acknowledgment of the king’s wish, and a roomful of thirsty men shouted Aristobulus’s name, though not as eagerly as the people this morning.
After we had all eaten our fill, after Herod had plied his friends and Aristobulus with so much wine that not a man among them remained steady on his feet, Alexandra sent the servants away. “Thank you all for honoring my home with your presence,” she said, inclining her head toward the king. “Now enjoy the pool and the courtyard while I take the ladies to rest in the shade on the eastern portico.”
I glanced at Herod—did I have to sit with those women? I would much rather remain with the men than talk about servants and children and household matters.
My brother did not meet my eye. Instead he nodded to one of his Idumaean friends. His cheeks flushed, the young man stood and clapped Aristobulus’s shoulder. “Come, my friend. The sun is hot, and I believe the pool is calling our names.”
“Go, go.” Herod waved them off. “I am not much for roughhousing. Go have fun, all of you.”
I watched, still chafing at the thought of joining the women, as the Idumaean led Herod’s friends away. Aristobulus, unsteady on his feet, draped his arm around another man’s shoulder and stumbled toward the courtyard.
When the sound of their voices had faded, I rose and went to Herod, dropping into Mariamne’s empty place. “It is not like you, brother, to dismiss your audience. Why are you not swimming with your guests?”
He gave me a distracted glance, then stared at the doorway through which they had disappeared. “I shall not swim today. Nor you, eh, Joseph?”
My husband, who had been snoring on his couch, jerked awake. “What? Did I miss something?”
“Nothing,” I assured him. I looked back at Herod. “You are king, so do what you will. But please tell me I do not have to sit with those women. I have heard enough about the Hasmoneans today; I do not need them to tell me again how they are noble and highly esteemed.”
Herod nodded and gave a half smile. “Then remain with me, sister, and let us talk about the future.”
I snorted. “What have we to do with the future? It lies beyond our reach.”
“Not always, little one.” His hand fell upon mine. “Sometimes we can affect the future by taking action today.”
“So you say.” I pulled free of his grasp and moved to the window, which offered a view of the pool and courtyard. The men had pulled off their light summer tunics and were swimming naked, the sun burnishing their skin.
My eyes gravitated to Aristobulus, who would have been the center of attention in any gathering. He stood in the center of the pool, where Herod’s friends had encircled him.
“I’m next!” one of the men shouted. While Aristobulus grinned like a drunken fool, the young man reached out and pushed down on the high priest’s head, submerging him. The man held him under until Aristobulus’s arms rose and smacked at the man’s hand, freeing himself.
Aristobulus surfaced, openmouthed, dripping and gasping for breath. “I do not understand this game,” he said, slinging water from his hair. “When do I get to hold one of you under?”
“Not yet,” another young Idumaean said, striding through the water. His arm swung up, his hand planted firmly on the high priest’s head, and his burly form rose to push Aristobulus beneath the surface.
“What sort of game is that?” I asked Herod.
“Hmm?”
“They are playing a game, but it makes no sense.”
Herod waved my concern away. “They are drunk. Soon they will get out of the water and sleep like dead men.”
I squinted to focus on the scene below. The Idumaeans shouted and splashed and cheered, not with the uncaring merriment of youth but with purpose in their expressions and manner. I waited, my concern rising, until Aristobulus’s arms shot up from the water and slapped at yet another tormentor’s hand. I expected Herod’s guest to release him, but the fellow—the largest of the group—only shifted his weight and pressed harder, his biceps bulging as his other hand gripped Aristobulus’s shoulder, pinning the priest against the bottom of the pool . . .
“Herod?” My voice squeaked.
The men gathered around the thrashing pair seemed to become frantic with merrymaking, shouting, counting, splashing. From the other side of the house, the Hasmonean women must have heard the noise and smiled, imagining their triumphant young priest having a good time, a well-deserved celebration after the stress of the Sukkot ceremony.
The large Idumaean youth lifted his hands and stepped back. The others stopped yelling, and silence as thick as fog rolled over the courtyard . . .
The body of Aristobulus sank deeper into the clear blue water of the pool and settled on the bottom.
I could not find my vo
ice. My feet had carried me outside on a flood of awful realization, and afterward I could not speak. Herod passed me in the hallway, and now he stood at the edge of the pool, his hands wound in his hair, tears streaking his cheeks as Joseph and the others lifted the pale body of Aristobulus and laid it on the pavement.
“An accident,” one of the youths said, his voice flat and final. “It was a terrible accident.”
One of the servants must have run to fetch the women, for at that moment a horrifying wail pierced the hot stillness.
“Aristobulus? That cannot be my son. He cannot be dead. He cannot be dead!”
Alexandra ran to her son’s side and dropped to her knees, drawing his wet head into her lap. I watched the lad’s hair curl on her lap like wet ribbons, saw the lips I had desired to caress. They had gone the color of a twilight sky.
“Oh, my son! How—how—?” Alexandra’s eyes flew up like angry hornets. “You!” She fastened her hot gaze on Herod. “You did this.”
Herod lifted his wet hands. “How could I? I loved him.”
“You hated him. You cannot bear to share your glory with another, so you did this.”
“Alexandra . . .” Herod spoke slowly, in a low and broken voice. “I loved the boy as you do. Is he not my brother by law? Would I harm the brother of my beloved wife?”
“You would kill your own son if it pleased you. You have no love in you, Herod. You have a rock where your heart should be—”
“Mother?” With wide, dazed eyes, Mariamne knelt at her mother’s side and squeezed her arm, then looked up at Herod. “You must forgive her for the things she says. She does not mean them.”
Herod sighed heavily, then sank onto a stone bench as if this sudden grief was too heavy to bear. “I am broken in spirit and heart,” he said, beating his chest. “If any sort of mischief was wrought here, I will not rest until I discover it.”
“No mischief,” one of the Idumaeans said, a worried note in his voice. I recognized him—he was the largest youth, the one who held Aristobulus under at the end. His eyes had gone wide, and in that instant a cold reality swept over me in a terrible wave. It would be a simple matter for Herod to have this young man put to death. If Herod had ordered him to kill Aristobulus, an execution would wipe away the chief witness. Someone would pay for the crime, even if someone else had ordered it.
“It was an accident, my king.” The young man’s voice wavered with honest fear. “We were playing a game, holding each other under the water. He—I—we must have been drunker than we realized. But no harm was intended, especially to the cohen gadol.”
Herod had closed his eyes as if he could not bear to look upon the corpse. Now he looked up and met the terrified gaze of the man who had drowned Aristobulus. “You swear,” Herod said, carefully pronouncing each word. “You swear upon your life that this was an accident?”
The man fell to his knees and clasped his hands. “I swear it.”
Herod glanced at Alexandra, then turned back to the young man. “Let us not double our burden of grief today. I believe you. You will not be punished.”
The man looked as though he might collapse as Herod stood and walked to Mariamne. He held out his arms, waiting, until she rose and stepped into them. “My dearest love,” he murmured, “I am so sorry this day has brought such tragedy, especially after such joy this morning. What can I do to ease your pain?”
Mariamne turned and stared at her brother’s body. “Are we certain he is dead? Perhaps he is only cold and can be warmed . . .” She stepped forward as if she would warm him herself when Herod caught her arm.
“No, dear love. He is gone.”
She turned wide eyes toward his, and in that moment she recognized the truth. She tipped her head back and screamed, and the sound of such primal agony elicited yet another cry from her mother. Herod embraced his wife and looked to me for guidance.
What advice could I give him? Surely my brother had a gift for arranging actions without taking thought for what came afterward.
“Leave them to their grief,” I said, feeling suddenly weary and worn. “And let them voice their sorrow. Plan a royal funeral for the young man, and let all Judea mourn his untimely and accidental death.”
Herod nodded, then hung his head and buried it in the curve of his wife’s neck as he, too, lifted his voice in agonized wailing.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Zara
I heard the voices first. Voices in the distance, shouts heard over the steady clip-clop of horses’ hooves, punctuated occasionally by screams. Mava and I stepped onto a balcony at the servants’ quarters and stared at the courtyard gate as the sound grew louder. I looked at her, a question on my face, but she shrugged. “Sounds like bees,” she said, her brows furrowing. “Angry bees.”
The gate swung open and in rode the king’s guards, surrounding a carriage. The carriage pulled up to the entrance, the door opened, and the king stepped out, extending his hand to Mariamne, who practically fell into his arms.
Behind the carriage came the king’s chariot, driven by Joseph, and a rough wagon, with Alexandra sitting on the wagon bed.
Mava snorted softly. “That’s a sight I never thought to see—the queen’s mother sitting in a hay wagon.”
As the conveyance drew closer, I could see that Alexandra sat next to a lumpy sheet, one hand pressed protectively to whatever lay beneath the fabric.
“What is—?”
“A body,” Mava whispered, her hand going to her throat. “I think . . . I think someone has died.”
Who? I looked at the carriage again and saw Salome step out, her face pale and her hair disheveled. So who was missing?
A moment later the king’s physician came running. He climbed into the wagon, threw back the sheet, and I gasped. “Aristobulus!”
Trembling, I took in the scene with one horrified glance: the dead priest in a wagon, the king’s guards silent and grave on their horses, the grieving king supporting his wife, the mother on her knees, her arms draped over the pale body of her beautiful son.
A ripple of dismay ran through the servants behind me while I remained frozen in place. My mother’s dreams were dying in that rough wagon, her hopes for my future becoming as cold and dead as the corpse it carried.
“Is it the priest?”
“The king has killed him.”
“Would the queen be with him if that were true?”
Mava called to a guard in the courtyard below, “What happened?”
The guard looked up at us. “The lads were playing a game in the pool,” he replied in a hushed voice, “holding each other beneath the water. I thought it odd, though, that the high priest was the only one being dunked. But then all of them were addled in the head by their drinking.”
“The king has gone and done it,” a servant behind me muttered. When I turned around to identify the voice, no one would meet my gaze. No wonder. That sort of comment should not be owned by anyone.
But did he speak the truth? Surely not! Our king wept openly, beating his breast even as he clung to his grieving wife. Mariamne covered her face with a veil and slumped against the king, as if the weight of the world had just fallen on her slender shoulders.
Only Alexandra remained dry-eyed. As we watched, she gently covered her son’s body with the sheet, then stood and regarded the king with a cold, passionless stare. Then, without a word, she pivoted and walked to the back of the wagon, where slaves helped her down. When she reached the pavement, she lifted her chin and strode away, a half-dozen servants running after her.
I brought my hand to my mouth to stifle a sob. How could this have happened to a youth with such promise? How could HaShem have allowed it? Aristobulus had been HaShem’s chosen priest, and he should have led us in worship for years to come. But now he was dead, and he had not worn the high priest’s robes for more than a few weeks.
I turned away from the troubling sight, unable and unwilling to speculate about what had happened. Along with Ima, I had hoped to meet Ar
istobulus, marry him, and bear sons who would serve HaShem as their father had. Now none of those things would happen, so why was I living in the palace? If I was not meant to marry Aristobulus, why had HaShem brought me to this place?
Tears blurred my vision as I staggered into a quiet corridor and pressed my hands to the stone wall. “Why, Adonai?” I whispered. “Why have you allowed this horrible thing?”
I lifted my wavering voice to heaven, but no one answered, nor did any sort of peace fill my heart. This grief was mine, but not mine alone. Aristobulus’s mother, sister, and king would mourn his death, and all of Jerusalem would mourn with them.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Salome
Anyone who studied Herod in the days following Aristobulus’s death would not doubt his deep and sincere grief. He arranged a magnificent funeral for the young man, built a tomb worthy of a king, and gathered so many treasures to place within the tomb that I worried about thieves. He hoped the people of Jerusalem—who mourned their high priest as if they mourned a member of their own family—would realize what great care and expense he had lavished on the Hasmonean heir. They did realize he was doing a great deal to honor one of the last Hasmoneans, but his actions did not soften their hearts toward him. When the people learned their young, healthy, handsome high priest had died among Herod’s Idumaean friends, they spread the rumor that the boy had been murdered on the king’s command. “The guilty purse spends freely,” they whispered.
In the quiet of my own heart, I wondered if Herod could have been desperate enough, jealous enough, to have the youth murdered. Was the rumor true?
Alexandra certainly believed it. Though she would not dare publicly accuse my brother of murdering her son, she did not appear in the king’s presence for weeks, claiming she would not leave her chambers until she had finished mourning. Her suspicions undoubtedly colored Mariamne’s attitude, for although the queen could not refuse to come when the king summoned her, she no longer smiled at his jokes or blushed at his compliments.
