by Angela Hunt
“He told them about his promise to the king?”
The girl’s flush deepened as tears appeared in her eyes. “Apparently the king said that if he did not return, Joseph should . . . he should make sure Herod and Mariamne would be united in death.”
I lowered my head and adopted a blank expression. Given Zara’s consternation, perhaps it would be better if I pretended ignorance of Herod’s order. I furrowed my brow. “Can you explain further?”
“From what I understand, the king asked Joseph to kill the queen, so she would be with him in the afterlife.”
I looked away from the stammering child and focused on the wall. Had Herod given Joseph any other secret orders? Anything concerning his sister? I looked back at Zara. “Did Joseph say anything else?”
She shook her head. “He did not mean to reveal the king’s secret, but the queen and her mother forced him. Afterward he left the room quickly.”
“Of course he did. And how did the queen react?”
“She and her mother were quiet when I left, but I slipped away after Joseph left.”
“Good,” I murmured. “Thank you. You have given me much to consider.”
After Zara bobbed her head and hurried out the door, I sank to my couch and pulled a pillow to my chest. Though Herod’s request had surprised me when Joseph first told me about it, my brother’s reasoning now made sense. He had couched his request well, speaking of eternal love and such, but I knew his true nature. His passion concerned more than the woman. Mariamne represented the royal line of Israel, and Herod did not want anyone usurping his sons’ place in that line. If Herod died and Mariamne did not, Alexandra would marry her to someone else, and that man’s children would sit upon the throne of Judea. Herod’s sons by Mariamne would have to be set aside or die, and Herod’s name, his progeny, and his immediate family would be wiped off the earth.
Herod had not asked Joseph to kill Mariamne out of love for her—he had done it out of love for his family, his children, and his future. He had not made his request to be cruel; he had meant it to be pragmatic. Practical. And protective.
I propped my chin on my hand and considered the future. If Mariamne had ever loved Herod, she certainly did not love him now. She had been cool to him ever since Aristobulus’s death; now she would despise him utterly. The high-and-mighty Hasmonean princess had been put in her place. She belonged to Herod, who could cherish her or destroy her, and Joseph had unwittingly proved the point.
As for Joseph . . . I sighed heavily. Was there no end to his stupidity? Why had he told Mariamne about Herod’s order? What sort of leader could be so witless? The man had outlived his usefulness, both to me and to Herod.
I moved to the window and looked out over the courtyard, where servants worked, horses whickered, and tradesmen plied their wares. For my brother’s sake I would dearly love to eliminate Mariamne and Alexandra’s constant meddling, but how? Send them into exile? Send one of them away? Either option would be difficult because Herod dearly loved Mariamne, and that lady dearly loved her mother.
Yet the situation was not entirely hopeless. Alexandra had already made trouble by attempting to sneak herself and her son out of Jerusalem in a coffin. Herod’s men had caught them at the docks, yet he had demonstrated rare patience and not punished her.
But that night had revealed what a schemer she was. And as surely as evening follows sunset, I knew she would reveal her true nature again.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Zara
The sun rose hot the next morning, and the floor tiles gleamed as I hurried toward my mistress’s chamber. Though Salome usually slept well past sunrise, I knew she had special plans for the day and would rise early.
I had just passed a pair of guards and entered the hallway that led to the queen’s apartment when a slave signaled for my attention. I knew the woman; she belonged to the queen’s mother. I stopped and gave her a polite smile. “Do you need something?”
“My mistress”—the slave lowered her eyes as if she were unworthy to look directly at me—“has asked me to find you.”
“The queen’s mother wants to speak to me?”
“Please.” The girl opened the door wider. “She is in her bedchamber.”
Reluctantly I entered the richly decorated apartment and stepped inside the innermost chamber, where the walls shimmered with silks and other fine fabrics. The bed dripped with furs and linens, and in the middle of an overstuffed mattress I found the queen’s mother. I barely recognized her, for her graying hair was undone and her face completely unadorned.
“You.” The woman lifted her chin. “You are Salome’s handmaid?”
I nodded.
“What does she call you?”
“Zara.”
“You are Jewish?”
“Yes.”
“Then how can you stand to work for that woman?” Alexandra waved the thought away and swung her legs off the bed. “I have a request to make of you, Zara. I hope you will have mercy on me and grant what I ask.”
I dipped my head in respect. “I will do my best.”
“I hoped you would say that.”
The older woman sighed and braced herself on the edge of the bed. “I do not know if you realize it, but I am being held prisoner here. Did you see the guard in the hallway? I am not allowed to leave. Any messages I send must go first to Salome, who reads every word. Any guest I receive must be approved by Herod’s brother, Pheroras. I am held captive by my son-in-law.”
I blinked, surprised by the woman’s assessment. “I do not believe the king would—”
“You are a child. You cannot possibly know him as I do. He says he is protecting me from people who would do me harm, but who in Jerusalem does not love me? The only person who wishes me ill is Herod. And possibly that woman, his shadow.”
“Who?”
Her dark eyes blazed up at me. “Your mistress.”
I glanced toward the open window and wished I had the power to fly away. Listening to this woman made me feel disloyal. “I should get to my mistress—”
“Trust me, Herod intends to keep me a prisoner. So I find myself in dire need of help. And who better to help than a young girl who serves the king’s sister?”
My nerves tightened as my thoughts scampered like frightened mice. No matter what this woman asked of me, I could not do it. I did not want to disobey or displease my mistress, and no one who had any sense would want to come between Alexandra and the king.
“I have watched you,” Alexandra said, leaning toward me, “and I know you are a virtuous girl, despite the woman you serve. I will not ask you to do anything that might put your life in danger.”
The tension in my shoulders abated, but only a little.
“I have come up with a plan,” Alexandra went on, “and it is stored here.” She tapped the side of her head. “But I will need assistance, and you can give it.” She reached beneath a fur blanket and pulled out a sealed scroll, then offered it to me. “I want you to take this to the king’s reception room and look for Joseph. You will go up to him and deliver this message. He will recognize you as his wife’s handmaid, so he will accept it. Will you do this for me?”
I stared at the scroll as if it were a poisonous snake. If I took it . . .
“No one would suspect you of carrying a message for me; no one would ever suspect Salome’s handmaid.”
“But suppose someone saw me come in here? If I came out carrying a scroll—”
“You are friends with my daughter’s handmaid, are you not? Anyone who saw you would believe you came in to look for Mava. If you tuck the scroll into your tunic, no one will see it. You have freedom of movement, Zara, and I do not. And I have good reason to believe my life is in danger.”
The statement startled me, for I could not believe the king would harm his mother-in-law. Had he not forgiven her many times? But then I looked down and saw honest fear in Alexandra’s dark eyes, and her hand trembled as she offered me the scroll.
Was
it not a sin to refuse to perform a good deed?
I took it, dropped it beneath the neckline of my tunic, and felt it fall to my belt where it rested against my bare belly.
“I will do this for you,” I said, backing away. “But please do not ask me to be disloyal to my mistress again.”
I did not carry the scroll to Joseph right away. I left Alexandra’s apartment and hurried to Salome’s, my heart thudding with every frantic step.
“You are a virtuous girl,” Alexandra had said, counting on my piety and my desire to please HaShem. But I desired to please my mistress too and not because I hoped palace service would improve my station in life. I wanted to please her because that was a servant’s duty, and I knew my place.
Yet was Alexandra truly in danger? I saw no signs of it. So which woman should I obey, my mistress or the queen’s mother?
I greeted Salome with a stiff bow, brought her a bowl of fruit, and set about braiding her hair in a style she favored. Only six sections of hair were braided, the rest was left to flow down her back. Then two groups of three braids were sewn together, side by side, forming a wide band of braids. Finally the braid bands were pulled across the front of the head, from right to left and left to right, the bands secured in place with needle and more thread.
“Finished.” I stepped back and let my mistress admire herself in the looking brass. “Do you need anything else, mistress?”
Salome smiled at her reflection, lowered the brass, and looked at me as if I’d lost my good sense. “Would you send me out with an unpainted face?”
“Oh! I am sorry. Let me get the applicators.”
After painting her eyes, cheeks, and lips, Salome was finally ready to face the world. I helped her dress, then stood aside as she checked her reflection again and left the chamber.
I carried the scroll in my tunic for the better part of the day—as I tidied up, made her bed, and cut fresh flowers from the garden. Yet my conscience nagged at me, giving me no peace. So as the sun lowered and my mistress began to prepare for dinner, I stepped into her bedchamber and bowed low.
She was rummaging through a trunk, probably looking for a himation or hair ornament. “Come, Zara, let’s be quick tonight. I am starving, and Joseph is entertaining guests from Rome.”
Instead of replying, I pulled the scroll from my belt and set it on her dressing table.
My silence made her look up. “What is that?” She nodded to the scroll.
“Alexandra asked me to deliver it to your husband. She asked me . . . I was not to tell you about it.”
“Really.” My mistress’s brows rose as she stepped forward and broke the seal. Holding the scroll close to the flickering oil lamp, she read the message, then carefully rewrapped the soft leather around the spool. “Fetch me wax and candle,” she said, her eyes growing distant. “We will reseal this and then you will take it to Joseph. You should do it as soon as you finish here. Alexandra will be wondering why she has heard no response.”
“Yes, mistress.”
Salome did not speak of the scroll again, but when I finished helping her dress, I picked it up and delivered it as promised.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Salome
The talk at dinner that night was of the rumors circulating throughout Jerusalem. Herod had not been gone a full month, barely time for news to travel across the Great Sea, but we had no shortage of unofficial reports from Laodicea: Herod had stood trial before Antony and Cleopatra, he had been found guilty of plotting to murder Israel’s high priest, and he had committed the murder through hired mercenaries. Our Roman guests had heard even darker stories since landing at the port. “We heard Herod confessed everything under torture,” a man called Publius casually remarked as he reached for a piece of venison. “Then Antony had him beheaded, just as he beheaded Antigonus.”
I gave the man a hostile glare. “You speak, sir, as if the subject on trial were a dog or a bull. Herod is my brother and my king. We do not find these false reports entertaining.”
“Oh?” Publius smiled as he chewed. “I beg your pardon, lady, but the streets are full of such talk.”
“Sir, this is the palace, not the street.” I stood and pressed my hands together, addressing the guests. “Thank you for coming, but you have delighted us long enough. Good night.”
A few brows shot upward in surprise; most banquets lasted half the night. Even Joseph, presumably the host, gave me a puzzled look, yet he did not protest as I moved toward the door.
“I am sorry,” I murmured as I passed him, “but I could not endure one more minute of that man’s insulting drivel.”
Joseph came to my chamber later that evening, his face clouded with fear. He did not sit but paced at the foot of my bed, his shoulders stooped with anxiety. “What if the rumors are true?” he said, glancing over at me. “What should I do? The people will seize upon this news and revolt. They will find someone—probably Hyrcanus—and put him on the throne. If I stand in their way, they will kill me without hesitation.”
“They would never choose Hyrcanus,” I pointed out. “He is too old and was never a good king. No, they would allow Mariamne to act as regent until her eldest son was of age.” I tilted my head, realizing that the same thought must have occurred to my brother. “What about your promise to Herod? Did he not ask you to kill Mariamne if he were executed?”
Joseph looked at me as if I had suddenly grown a second head. “Are you mad? She is a Hasmonean; the people would storm the palace if I executed her. If they believe Herod is dead—”
“That is why you must convince them he is not dead. Double the guards around the perimeter. Maintain a show of force at the towers. And warn the commander at the Antonia—he must be alert for signs of trouble.”
Joseph kept pacing, but he did not mention the plan Alexandra had suggested. He did not know I had read her message, so I knew the thoughts crowding his mind.
How revealing his silence was! In her message to Joseph, Alexandra had suggested that he take her, Mariamne, and the royal princes to the Antonia for protection in case of revolt. For it is coming, she had written, as surely as Antony will punish Herod for the unspeakable crime of murdering my son.
I climbed out of bed, walked to my husband, and placed my palm against his chest, stopping him in place. “I know you are planning to take Alexandra and the Hasmonean heirs to the Roman commander. I find it interesting that you have made no mention of taking the king’s brother or sister with you.”
I said nothing as Joseph stammered and flushed, proving my suspicions. If a revolt broke out in the coming days, the Jewish royals would be saved but not the Idumaeans. Not Herod’s kin. Except for my husband, of course.
Joseph, who had a soft spot for his beautiful queen, and who might like to spend his dying years as king.
“I would take the entire royal family,” he said. “But it will not come to that.”
“Indeed, it will not. Because how could these rumors be true? Herod is not the sort of man who confesses to crimes he did not commit. And if he were dead—” my voice caught in my throat—“if he were, I would feel it. I would know it. And I have felt nothing since he left.”
Joseph lowered his head and moved to the door, where he paused and looked back at me. “I hope you are right—I hope Herod is alive and well. Because if the people do rebel, I am not sure we can hold them off.”
“I’m sure you are correct,” I told him, climbing back into bed. “I do not think you could hold off a wasp. But Herod will return, and then you will be ashamed of your cowardice this night.”
Herod returned a few weeks later. He arrived in the heat of the afternoon, accompanied by his elite guards, and nothing in his demeanor led me to believe he had been chastised by Mark Antony. He held his head as high as ever and was as firm with the guards who greeted him at the palace gates. And when the crowds outside the palace realized their king had returned, they did not shout or protest but remained silent and went about their business as if he had ne
ver gone away.
My brother entered the palace in a burst of energy and warmly greeted those who had gathered in the reception hall. Indeed, as I watched, I saw a man who was happy to be home, not a dog who had been whipped and kicked by his master.
Not until later, when Herod summoned me, Joseph, and Pheroras to his inner reception chamber did his smile fade. Even then, however, he did not speak of defeat but of victory.
“So?” Joseph asked. “How did Antony approach the matter of Aristobulus’s death? Did he openly rebuke you?”
Herod leaned back in his chair and propped his dusty sandals on the table, then folded his hands across his belly. “He did not even mention the boy.”
The three of us stared, mouths agape, until the somber look on Herod’s face erupted into a wide grin. “I could not believe it myself,” he said, reaching for the fruit bowl on the table. “In fact, Antony ate all his meals with me and allowed me to sit with him in judgment. Later he told me he had rebuffed Cleopatra and told her not to meddle in other people’s affairs.”
Pheroras guffawed. “Truly?”
“So it was all for naught,” I said. “Antony told Cleopatra he would confront you about Aristobulus, but he was only trying to keep her happy. That’s why he met you in Syria instead of Alexandria.”
Herod winked at me. “Clever girl. I set sail convinced my run of good fortune had come to an end, but Antony had no wish to punish me. In my shoes, faced with a popular rival from a competing family, he said he would have done the same thing I did. I came away with the clear impression that Antony cares little about what happens in Judea, as long as the people are peaceable and our taxes are paid on time.”
“Amazing.” Pheroras shook his head. “He trusts you implicitly.”
Herod shrugged. “He trusts me enough. He had heard about my deep mourning, the lavish funeral, and the ornate tomb. He also appreciated the many gifts I brought him—Antony has always appreciated rare and beautiful treasures.”
The words rare and beautiful reminded me of Mariamne, but I would not mention her until I could catch Herod alone.
