by Angela Hunt
“How will Antony escape Cleopatra’s ire?” I asked. “She has to be furious about this outcome. Many times she tried to take Alexandra and Aristobulus away from you, yet each time she failed. And I hear she is a woman who does not like to fail.”
“I do not like to fail, either,” Herod answered, scoring a pomegranate with his knife. “But Antony found a way to placate her. As soon as we met, he informed me he was giving Cleopatra Jericho and bits of other Judean territory, including the Beka Valley.”
“But we have settlements there!” Pheroras protested.
“We shall have them still,” Herod said. “We will pay rent to her, but we will keep our settlements, our groves, and our forests. The price will sting”—he shrugged—“but the woman wanted my head, so I am resigned to relinquishing some of our territory. Especially since she asked for all of Arabia and Judea.”
He broke open the fruit, spilled the juicy seeds into his hand, and tossed them into his mouth. Chewing, he nodded at Pheroras. “You will send word to the overseers of the balsam forests and the palm groves. Let them know they must give a strict accounting of all profits and expenses. We have a landlord now, and we will pay Egypt’s fee.”
He went on, asking Pheroras about several building projects. When finished, he smiled at me. “And how have you been, little sister?”
“I would like to speak to you alone,” I said. “When you have a moment.”
My husband and Pheroras, neither of whom could imagine me capable of an original thought, said farewell to Herod and left the room. After they had gone, Herod leaned across the table and grinned. “What troubles you, Salome? Has Mariamne snubbed you again? Or did Alexandra insult you?”
“Do you think I would care about such common things?” I strode over and closed the door. When I was certain we would not be overheard, I sank back into my chair. “It pains me, brother, to be the bearer of distressing news.”
His grin vanished. “What is wrong? Is it Mariamne?”
I drew a deep breath. “I know you asked Joseph to look after her while you were away. He obeyed, brother, a little too well.”
“What?” Herod’s eyes narrowed to slits. “What do you mean?”
“We heard rumors of your death at Antony’s hand. Shortly thereafter, my handmaid brought me a message—a scroll Alexandra had intended to reach Joseph alone. Zara is loyal, however, and she brought it to me first.”
A tremor touched Herod’s smooth lips.
“Alexandra wrote out a plan. She wanted Joseph to escort her and Mariamne and the little princes to the Antonia, where they would be safe when rioting broke out. Later, Joseph came to me, worried about the rumors, and I confronted him with what I knew about Alexandra’s message. He did not deny her plan . . . or that he did not intend to include me and Pheroras in his flight. I asked Joseph if he had forgotten his promise to kill Mariamne if something happened to you, and he turned on me like an enraged beast. Clearly—and it pains me to tell you this—he intended to marry Mariamne and let her reign as regent until your son comes of age. He had no intention of fulfilling his vow to you.”
Herod’s face went pale. I expected him to scream or yell or pound the table. Instead he remained as motionless as a statue, silent except for the pinched sound of his breathing.
“I will kill her,” he finally said, staring at nothing. “She must die, and Joseph too.”
“I know this is hard for you,” I said, leaning toward him. “Such an act—on both their parts—cannot be forgiven.”
“Do not worry.” Herod stood and pushed away from the table with such force that his chair toppled over. “This crime will not go unpunished.”
I was not successful in my attempt to remove the twin arrogances known as Mariamne and Alexandra from the king’s house, and yet my efforts did produce one desirable outcome.
Herod was furious with his queen when he learned she and her mother had plotted with Joseph during his absence, but when she denied the charges of conspiracy and adultery, he forgave her everything.
The next afternoon he called me to his chamber, where he fixed me with an unblinking gaze. “Did your husband have an affair with my wife?”
I could not move, stunned by sheer disbelief at his expression. I had already told him everything I knew, so why was he asking this pointed question? Did he doubt my report? Had he ceased to trust me? If so, all the years of my life, my work for him, my steadfast love had come down to this moment . . . and meant nothing.
I tried to control myself, but my chin wobbled and my eyes filled in spite of my efforts. “I cannot . . .” I began, then stopped when my voice broke. I drew a deep breath and began again. “I cannot believe the distrust I see in your eyes.”
“Salome.” Herod’s eyes softened. “I am not doubting you—I am not—but you should know what your husband does, and you did not say if he had slept with the queen.”
“How am I to know what happens in the queen’s bedchamber?” Bereft, I fell onto my knees before my brother. “Joseph never sleeps with me, so I do not know what he does at night. I know he visited the queen and her mother regularly. I also know they conspired to leave the palace and seek shelter from the Romans. They were leaving together. So I ask you—what was I to think?”
A melancholy frown flitted across my brother’s features. “Mariamne denies the charge of adultery. She swears she has been faithful to me.”
I sniffed.
“But your husband—he failed me. He proved he would not keep his oath, even if I were dead.” He crossed his arms and studied me with a calculating expression. “If you had made such an oath, Salome, would you fulfill it?”
I stared at him, searching for the meaning behind his words. Was this some sort of test? Was he doubting me again?
“Herod.” I underlined the name with rebuke. “I have spent my life adoring you, and since you have been king I have spent my days serving and defending you. When you put me at Masada with your betrothed and her mother, did I complain? No, I endured them patiently and stood at the balcony every morning, searching the terrain for some sign of your return. When you were gone to see Antony, I safeguarded your interests, even though those who worked against you had already given up. I married Joseph for you. So yes, if I swore an oath to do something after your death, I would most certainly carry out my promise.”
Herod grunted and looked away. “Would you be rid of your husband?”
I closed my eyes and sighed. Joseph, my uncle and my husband, had never been my lover. Due to his disinterest, I had no children. No one looked at me as Herod looked at Mariamne. I slept in an empty bed and shared my secrets with my ten-year-old handmaid.
And Joseph had become a liability. If I could not trust him, neither could the king. Herod could not afford to have an untrustworthy man in his inner circle.
I opened my eyes and met my brother’s gaze. “Do what you will with Joseph. I will not mourn him.”
Herod nodded and brushed his hands together. “Then it is time he left us. I care not if he is our uncle; he should never have been so cold to you. He will be gone by sunset, and we will find you a better husband. Someone more suited to your station.”
My heart quickened. If I did not speak now, Herod might marry me off to someone as old and stultified as Joseph.
I flattened myself on the floor and reached for his feet. “Forgive me, brother, for asking for what I do not deserve.”
He lifted a brow. “Has someone caught your eye?”
“Someone . . . has impressed me because I thought he might be of service to you. I would never have had the temerity to think of him for my own sake, though he is a pleasant-looking man. No, when I saw him at court, I thought he might be of great service to you, for he seems wise, wealthy, and confident. He is a good soldier—”
“Am I to know the name of this amazing man?”
I sat up, allowing a smile to curve my lips. “He is called Costobar, and I believe you know him. He is one of us, an Idumaean.”
Herod’s eyes glimmered with recollection. “Of course, the man I appointed governor of Idumea and Gaza. He guarded the exits during the siege of Jerusalem.”
“He lacks a wife,” I said, coming directly to the point. “I am still young, brother, and I would like to have children. I believe Costobar would make a good father—an Idumaean father.”
Herod lifted a brow, and too late I realized my words could have been interpreted as an insult to him for marrying a Jewish woman.
I bowed my head. “I stress that our offspring would be Idumaean only because I would not want them to compete with your children in any way. Mariamne’s babies are the union of Idumaean and Jewish royalty. My offspring will neither compare nor compete.”
Herod rubbed the back of his neck, then nodded. “Tomorrow I will bring Costobar to court. If there is no impediment, I will arrange the marriage.”
I stood in what I hoped was a suitably humble posture. “I only hope he will agree.”
“Who would not want to marry the king’s sister?” Herod laughed. “Go in peace, Salome. But if you have anything to say to Joseph, you should go to the dungeon straightaway. He will not live to see the sunrise.”
“I have nothing to say to him.”
Leaving Herod alone, I walked to my chamber, realizing that perhaps my life had not been wasted after all.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Salome
My chief mistake, I realized later, was underestimating the depth of Herod’s passion for Mariamne. He had no such passion for Joseph, whom he dispatched despite my husband’s frantic denials before the court. At my suggestion, Herod sent for Zara, who came and stood before him, trembling like a frightened mouse. Herod had only one question for the girl: “Did you, child, see your mistress’s husband in the queen’s apartment?”
The girl nodded, and the order of execution was carried out.
I expected Mariamne and her mother to be executed soon after, but Herod could not bring himself to kill either woman. I could not understand his reasoning. After Herod’s return, Mariamne was cold and distant when he visited her room, demanding to know how he could love her when he had ordered Joseph to kill her. Herod found himself on the defensive, and so powerful was Mariamne’s indignant anger that he became mere putty in her hands.
By the time he left her chamber, Mariamne had been forgiven and Herod was even more furious at Joseph for being foolish enough to disclose his secret order. “If they had not already removed his body,” he told me later, “I would have executed him again.”
In those few days I learned something about my brother—gaining the throne had changed him. Before becoming king, Herod had been ruthless and fearless, never afraid to attempt the unthinkable, never reluctant to challenge the status quo. His intrepid ambition had undoubtedly caught Mark Antony’s attention, who saw that quality as a necessity for a client king.
Before becoming king, Herod had little to lose but his life, and he thought nothing of risking it. Our father had challenged all of us to be ambitious, clever, and perceptive, and the family loyalty he instilled always served us well. As he worked as adviser in the court of King Hyrcanus, we had loitered in the shadows and learned the value of being indispensable, dependable, and discreet.
Now Herod sat on the throne of Judea with no more mountains to conquer. He was not so foolish as to dream climbing the rungs of power in Rome, for he knew the Romans considered him too foreign, his religion too odd, and his people too backward.
At thirty-eight he had achieved the highest position open to him, and his only remaining challenge was in defending his throne from men and women who had been cast from the same mold—fearless, ambitious, clever schemers who would not stop until they had achieved the same pinnacle of power.
This realization elicited a new kind of fear in Herod, a vulnerability he took pains to hide. But I saw it nonetheless. Mariamne had the power to turn his fearlessness into insecurity, and I was unaccustomed to seeing weakness in my brother. “A king,” Father had always told us, “cannot show fear, especially to his enemies. They will seize upon his weakness and devour him.”
Mariamne, I saw clearly, was Herod’s weakness. And Alexandra lived to support her daughter.
Perhaps the most alarming lesson my brother learned after his trip to visit Antony was that his authority could be threatened and his confidence rattled by a woman . . . a possibility he had never considered.
But I knew the power a woman could wield. I also knew Alexandra of the Hasmoneans was determined to destroy my brother.
Costobar and I were married, not in a Jewish ceremony but, at the groom’s insistence, in a traditional Roman rite. Herod, Pheroras, and our mother acted as witnesses as the Idumaean priest waved a pot of incense around us and we agreed to be married.
Herod was the first to step forward and clap the groom’s shoulder. “Congratulations, brother!” He beamed as he took my new husband’s hand. “Treasure and guard her well, for she is the only sister I have.”
Costobar bore Herod’s congratulations with grace and a good measure of patience, for he clearly wished to be on his way. We had no reception, no banquet, no festivities of any kind. When Herod and Pheroras had departed, taking Mother with them, Costobar grabbed my hand and led me out of the palace and through the streets until we reached his house. I caught a fleeting impression of finely chiseled stones, a wide entryway, and several startled servants who were apparently unaware they were about to welcome a mistress. Then Costobar swung me into his arms and carried me up the stairs and into his bedchamber, where he released me and let me catch my breath.
I smoothed my tunic and took a moment to look around. The room was decidedly masculine, dominated by a wooden bed piled high with furs and embroidered pillows. A brazier glowed in a corner, and several pieces of leather armor lay piled on a bench. A desk sat against the wall, covered with scrolls and parchments, and colorful fabrics spilled from an open trunk in the corner.
Costobar stood without speaking, his hands on his hips, until I had finished taking stock of my surroundings. Then he cracked a crooked smile. “Does my chamber meet with your approval? I hope so, for I am not changing it.”
Was he hoping to intimidate me? He would find I was not easily cowed.
I lifted my chin and draped the train of my new tunic over my arm. “I see no place for me or my things, so I will keep my chambers at the palace. When I am here, though, I expect to have a place reserved for my handmaid, so she can be close enough to hear my call.”
Costobar laughed. “There is no room for handmaids here. This house is simple—designed for a commander and his officers. This room has a desk only because your brother has set me over Idumea and—”
“I know your position,” I interrupted, keeping my voice cool. “And if this is where you will billet your men, then I and my handmaid shall remain in the palace. You will come here when you need to work with your soldiers, and you will come to my apartment if you want your wife.”
I gave him a smile and approached the bed, allowing my fingertips to trail over the pile of lush furs. “I do not know where you acquired these, but if they are filled with fleas, I will not sleep here. My bed, on the other hand, is perfumed with cedar and sandalwood, and the furs are clean. The sheets are as soft as a baby’s cheek, and the air is altogether sweet. Would you not rather take your pleasure there than in a place like this?”
He did not answer but reached out and drew me to him, his arm like an iron hook around my back. I pressed my hands to his chest, about to resist, but his lips were surprisingly soft, his caress unexpectedly gentle. His lips probed and explored my face and neck while his hand rose to the back of my head. A moment later he had undone the clasp with which Zara had constrained my riotous hair, sending the auburn curls tumbling down my back.
“I will let you sleep in your palace apartment,” he said, his breath heating my neck as he lifted me into his arms, “but not just yet.”
He set me on his bed, and though the furs smel
led of animals and woods and smoke, I forgot to protest.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Zara
In the summer of my tenth year, a servant woke me in my chamber and said I had a visitor.
I sat up and blinked until my eyes focused in the gloom. “Who would come to see me?”
“A woman. She says she is your aunt.”
I slid out of bed and wrapped my shawl around me. I followed the slave through the servants’ quarters and down the stairs, then paused in a small courtyard filled with the odors of manure, blood, and rotting food.
I peered into the predawn fog. “Aunt Rimonah?”
“Here, child.” Rimonah stepped out of the shadows and smiled, the moonlight gilding her face with silver. The sight of her started a fountain of nostalgia flowing in my heart, so I hugged her, then searched her face. “What brings you to the palace, Aunt? And how did you get in?”
Her mouth twisted with irritable humor as she jerked her thumb toward a wagonload of bloody beef. “I slipped in with the butcher. That is why I had to come before sunrise. And that is why I cannot stay.”
“Oh.” Suddenly at a loss for words, I looked from her to the butcher, then back to my aunt. “Is something amiss?”
Sadness tinged her smile. “I am sorry to bring you sad news, but you should know—your mother died last week.”
I had expected to receive such news one day, but expectation did not dull the sharp pang that stole my breath. To my girlish mind, my mother was immortal. She had always been there for me, and she always would be. Even after coming to the palace, I never wavered in my belief that Ima was just beyond the thick walls, thinking of me, missing me, and praying for me.
Yet Rimonah said she had been gone a week. How could I not have sensed her loss?
I hiccupped a sob, and Aunt Rimonah drew me close. “She knew she did not have long to live. I wanted to send for you, but she said she did not want to bother you in your new life.”
