by Angela Hunt
“My new life?” I choked on the words. “The only life I have I owe to her. How could I do anything if she had never given birth to me?”
“Hush, child.” Rimonah strengthened her grip on my shoulders and positioned me in a stream of moonlight. “You look well, Zara. You have put on some weight. It is time you did.” The corner of her mouth rose in a gentle curve. “You are beginning to look like a woman.”
My cheeks burned. “It is the darkness, that’s all. I do not feel any different.”
“You will, in time. Soon, in fact.” She held me in a tight embrace, her chest falling as she exhaled. “I will never know if I did the right thing to send you away. Your mother wanted to keep you with her until the end, but I knew you would miss the opportunity of a lifetime if she did. So tell me”—she stepped back and looked into my eyes—“how is your mistress? Does she treat you well? Do they feed you enough? Do you ever see the king? Is he as horrible as they say?”
I lifted my hands against the barrage of questions. “My mistress is fine. I get plenty to eat. And I have friends among the other servants.”
“And the king?”
I shrugged. “The king is the king. He has nothing to do with me.”
I thought she might be disappointed to discover the king and I were not good friends, but instead she sighed in relief. “That is good to hear. They say no one is safe around the king, no one. So keep your distance, child, and honor HaShem in all you do. As He directed Daniel in Babylon, He will direct your steps.”
I nodded.
Aunt Rimonah studied me for a long moment. “I see so much of your mother in you,” she said, her chin quivering, then pulled me to her again. “She loved you so much.”
Something within me gave way at those words. I wrapped my arms around my aunt’s waist and quietly wept.
Chapter Thirty
Salome
Careful!” I warned as Zara’s fingers trembled on the reed she was using to outline my eyes. “Make the line thin and curved, not straight like the Egyptians favor it.”
“I’m trying, mistress.”
“Please try harder.” I tried not to be cross with the girl, for we were all anxious. Even Herod, who always seemed unflappable, appeared ill at ease, and Mariamne had also been overly excitable. She was pregnant again, and every time I saw her, she was moaning about how she felt too fat to be receiving visitors, especially royal visitors.
I do not know how it came to pass, but Cleopatra was sleeping beneath our roof—one Egyptian queen, more than sixty slaves, and a dozen handmaids whose job, it seemed, was to follow her, perfuming the air she breathed with melting cones of scented wax. Apparently, Antony had asked Herod if he would show her the glories of Jerusalem and then escort her safely back to the Egyptian border. How could Herod refuse?
The royal lady had already spent six nights as our guest, and I was growing impatient to see her go. Not only did caring for her entourage overtax our household maids, cooks, guards, and horsemen, but they had also forced our servants to vacate their quarters. Zara and most of the others were sleeping on mounds of hay in the stable, yet Cleopatra’s servants had the temerity to complain about the overcrowded conditions.
“Did you notice,” Zara said, interrupting my frustrated thoughts, “how many wigs the queen has? I was expecting her to wear those long, straight wigs we see in Egyptian art, but she is as fashionable as any Greek or Roman lady.”
“The world is one big family now,” I told her. “We can’t expect the Egyptians to dress like Egyptians anymore. Rome sets the standard for all of us.”
“Except the Jews,” Zara said, making a valid point. “The men, that is. The priests have looked the same ever since Moses and Aaron.”
“Perhaps, but their women haven’t,” I countered. “Now, should I wear the gold chiton or the purple? Purple is the color of royalty, but gold—”
“The gold makes your hair shine.” Zara applied the last stroke of kohl to my lashes, then stepped back and smiled. “I think your husband prefers gold.”
I nodded in silent agreement. Costobar did seem to like the color—in fabrics and on coins, vases, platters, and jewelry. The man definitely had a taste for shiny things.
I stood and held out my arms as Zara fastened the chiton at my shoulders, then adjusted the flowing fabric until it puddled around my feet. She then found a gold belt and tied it at my waist, pulling the chiton up and over the belt until I was able to walk without tripping.
“Will there be many guests at tonight’s banquet?” Zara asked as she moved to the jewelry case. “Will you want large pieces to be seen from across the room?”
I shook my head. “Herod wanted an intimate dinner tonight. Cleopatra, her chief advisor, Mariamne, me, Costobar, Pheroras, and his woman.”
“Who will he invite?”
“I have no idea.” I peered into the looking brass to check my reflection, then turned and pointed to a pair of earrings that would dangle almost to my shoulders. “Those. Cleopatra should certainly notice the stones in that pair.”
Zara had just finished slipping the earrings into my ears when Costobar entered the room. He spread his arms, his face brightening, and proclaimed me the most beautiful woman in all of Judea.
“You’ll have a hard time proving that tonight,” I told him while on my way to the door. “Come, we do not want to be late.”
An hour later, I looked around the crowded banquet room and realized that although we had given a banquet with an intimate setting, delicious food, and athletic jugglers to entertain, the queen of Egypt looked completely bored. And no wonder—I had heard tales of her extravagant dinners and elaborate entertainments and how she often invited her guests to take home sofas, slaves, exotic animals, and mountains of food. Mariamne had been flabbergasted when I told her about the banquet Cleopatra arranged to capture Mark Antony’s attention, and I knew our feast had to seem paltry by comparison. Still, she had come to visit us . . . so perhaps she would accept us as she found us.
“Herod.” Reclining on the arm of her couch, Cleopatra leaned toward my brother, her lashes fluttering. “I have been so comfortable beneath your roof, I wish I could stay longer. But I must ask that we begin our journey back to Egypt.”
“Really?” Herod dropped the chicken bone he had been gnawing and glanced at Mariamne. “Perhaps we should set out soon. My wife’s time is fast approaching, and I want to be back in Jerusalem by the time my next son is born.”
“You have a lovely wife.” Cleopatra gave Mariamne a perfunctory smile. “But surely you have not confined yourself to one woman? Is that a Jewish regulation?”
Costobar had lifted his cup to drink, but the audacity of the queen’s question made him sputter, which resulted in a coughing fit. Patting him on the back, I could not tear my gaze from Cleopatra and Herod.
“I love my queen,” Herod answered, for once taking the diplomatic approach. “Though it is not unusual for a king to have concubines or other wives.”
Cleopatra picked up her golden goblet and smiled. “Then you will have no problem visiting my room tonight.”
Herod’s expression did not change for a moment, and then her words fell into place. “What?”
“Lie with me tonight,” Cleopatra said, practically purring the invitation. “Surely you are not embarrassed by my straightforwardness. I have heard that you appreciate people who speak directly to the point.”
Costobar began to cough again, and Mariamne’s face went the color of pomegranate seeds. I swallowed hard, closed my eyes, and prayed Herod would not accept Cleopatra’s proposal—not now, not ever.
What was the woman thinking? She knew Herod answered to her lover, and surely she felt some sort of loyalty to Mark Antony . . . or did she? Did the marital bed mean nothing to the Egyptians, or was this sort of promiscuity confined to Cleopatra alone?
Herod’s mouth curled and rolled as though he wanted to spit. “If we are to leave for Egypt tomorrow,” he said to Cleopatra, his voice calm and indif
ferent, “then I would prefer to sleep tonight. If you need a man in your bed tonight, I suggest you find someone from your retinue to keep you company.”
“Very well.” Cleopatra released a three-noted laugh. “But do not ever deny that I gave you this opportunity.”
Costobar and I had just reentered my bedchamber when I turned to Zara and abruptly dismissed her.
“But, mistress, do you want me to help you—?”
“I am not retiring right away, so run along. Costobar and I must meet with the king.”
Zara bowed and departed straightaway, which left my husband and I alone for the first time that night. “Did you hear . . . ?” I began.
“Of course! I thought I was imagining things.”
“How could she?”
“They must do things differently in Egypt. And she did have a son by Julius Caesar.”
“I’m sure his wife wasn’t happy about it.”
“Mariamne looked as if she wanted to slap—”
“She might have slapped Herod if he had not refused.”
“He will want to talk about this. Will he summon us tonight or tomorrow?”
“He’s probably trying to calm Mariamne now. If he wants to talk, we’ll know soon enough.”
The moon had scarcely risen above the horizon when a messenger knocked on the door. “The king asks for you and your husband to—”
“We’re coming.”
Costobar grabbed a lamp and I followed, moving silently along the halls until we mounted the stairs to Herod’s private reception room. We found him inside, not pacing as I had feared but sitting calmly at the table, a loaf of bread and a block of cheese in front of him.
“Come,” he said, gesturing to a pair of empty chairs. “Have something to eat while we discuss what we should do with the queen who has made herself too much at home.”
“I thought you were taking her back to Egypt,” I said, sinking into the chair. I looked at the cheese and frowned—the notion of food suddenly turned my stomach.
“She needs to leave,” Costobar said, taking his seat next to me. “And on the journey you would do well to place guards around your abode. A woman that forward would think nothing of slipping into your tent during the dead of night. And what would Mariamne do then?”
“I do not want to sleep with that woman,” Herod said, his voice flat. “She does not interest me.”
“I know you do not want to offend Antony—”
“My reasons have nothing to do with Antony. Cleopatra is not beautiful, Mariamne is. Why would I sleep with a short little woman who talks too much, plots with Alexandra behind my back, and would happily kill me if she could arrange it? We know she covets Judea. I cannot see how she would profit by sleeping with me, unless it was to turn Antony against me. But I am not a man who would willingly give her pleasure.”
I blinked, surprised by the vehemence of my brother’s words.
“Then what do we do with her?” Pheroras asked as he came into the room. He nodded to Herod, broke off a hunk of bread, and dropped into an empty seat. “If you travel with her to Egypt, you had better double the guard around your tent. She’s the sort who would pay handsomely to have someone stick a knife in your back as you slept.”
“I’ve already advised him on that account,” Costobar said. “For an entirely different reason.”
Herod snorted. “I do not want to take her back to Egypt. I want to kill her.”
For a moment I thought I had misheard, but then I looked at the others and realized they were as stunned as I.
“Kill her?” Pheroras shook his head. “Antony would surely kill you.”
“Would he?” Herod fingered a bit of bread, working it into a small ball. “I would be doing it for Antony’s sake. That woman has made him weak. She will be the cause of his destruction, mark my words. The Romans covet her lands because Egypt feeds Rome with its grain. The Senate no longer trusts Antony because they believe he has fallen under her spell—and he has. If I killed her, the Senate would be grateful and so would Antony . . . in time.”
“But she is descended from a long line of kings and queens,” Costobar argued, his hand on his chest. “It is one thing to kill a common man; it is quite another to kill a noble ruler.”
“Is it?” Herod flicked the ball of dough at the wall, then grinned. “Have we not seen how a common man can be made a king, while a king becomes a common man? If a man with courage and daring can become a king, surely he has the right to stop a queen from ruining another courageous man.”
Resting his chin on his hand, Pheroras studied our brother. As much as I loved both my brothers, I had never been able to read Pheroras as easily as I read Herod. Pheroras had a diplomat’s face—almost anything could be going on behind those dark eyes and that large forehead, and he did not easily share his thoughts.
At least not with me.
“You might consider waiting,” Pheroras said at last. “I can see your reasoning: by ridding yourself of Cleopatra, you would regain the lands Antony asked you to surrender to her. Antony might place you over Egypt itself, if Rome would allow it. But regicide . . . you might find your Roman overseers looking at you as though they wonder if you would ever decide to kill them.”
“You cannot kill a woman,” I said. “You might kill another king in an act of war, but to kill a woman? The Romans have odd ideas about women. They pretend to esteem them even while they keep them in a lower estate.”
“You cannot kill anyone who has been entrusted to you for their safety,” Costobar added. “Antony asked you to escort her to Egypt. If you kill her, not only have you killed a ruler, your master’s lover, and the mother of his children, you have violated every law of hospitality. She came to you because she trusted this to be a safe place—”
“She trusted my position as one who fears Mark Antony,” Herod interrupted. “What she does not realize is that my esteem for Antony involves more than fear. I admire him, I want to serve him, and killing her would be the greatest service anyone could perform for the man.”
Costobar and Pheroras looked at each other, then turned to me. I shook my head and saw agreement in the faces across the table.
“Herod.” I reached out to him. “Do not do this thing. See her to Egypt as soon as you can, and be done with her. Let Antony do what Antony will do, but do not insert yourself into their situation. Let Rome deal with them. Then, afterward, you can deal with Rome or Antony, whichever holds the upper hand in the end.”
Herod looked around the table and slowly dipped his chin in acquiescence. “You have convinced me,” he said, a note of regret in his voice. “Yet we may have to revisit this discussion again. If that time comes, unfortunately the woman is not likely to be within our grasp.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Salome
In the fifth year of Herod’s reign in Jerusalem, Mariamne gave birth to her fourth child, her first daughter, whom she named Salampsio. The girl joined her three brothers—Alexander, Aristobulus, and Herod—in the nursery, which had to be enlarged to accommodate my brother’s growing family. I thought Herod might be disappointed to welcome a daughter, but he doted on the little girl, constantly inquiring about her health and endlessly speculating about which prince she might marry when she came of age.
Life in Judea was never uneventful, and I counted every year Herod maintained his position as a victory. My brother was involved in disputes far and near. He was at war with Malichus, the second Nabataean king of that name, and every year he grew more concerned about the disintegrating relationship between Octavian and Mark Antony.
I was not privy to the many meetings Herod had with visitors from other kingdoms in the Roman Empire, but from what he told me, I learned the agreement between Octavian and Antony had frayed beyond repair. Antony spent nearly all his time in Egypt, and members of the Roman Senate worried that Antony intended to proclaim himself and Cleopatra co-rulers of the Empire. The fact that Antony and Cleopatra were raising four children—the eldest, the s
on of Cleopatra and Julius Caesar, and three who had been sired by Antony—did not help the situation. Were they, the senators speculated, trying to create a dynasty to overthrow the Roman Republic?
Antony and his lover had already declared their children kings and queens and given each of them territories to rule. At a bizarre ceremony in Alexandria, Antony dressed as the god Dionysus-Osiris while Cleopatra portrayed herself as Isis-Aphrodite. They sat on golden thrones, where Antony affirmed Cleopatra to be queen of kings and ten-year-old Caesareon her co-ruler as king of kings. Caesareon was also affirmed to be Julius Caesar’s true heir, a direct rebuttal to Octavian’s authority. Alexander Helios and his six-year-old twin sister were awarded Armenia, Media, Parthia, Cyrenaica, and Libya. And two-year-old Ptolemy Philadelphus had been proclaimed master of Phoenicia, Syria, and Cilicia.
Octavian wanted Antony and his lover to disappear, but the Roman army revered Antony as a soldier and commander. So how could Octavian quell the threat?
Herod proffered the question one evening as my brothers joined Costobar and I on one of the balconies, enjoying the evening breeze.
Pheroras leaned forward. “Get rid of Antony and Cleopatra? He should send an assassin.”
Herod shook his head. “Too risky, particularly if the assassin is captured. Public opinion might turn against Octavian, and he needs the support of the military legions.”
“He could have one of them killed,” I suggested, though I did not feel up to playing this game. “The two-headed monster is reduced to one. If their love is genuine, perhaps the remaining lover will be too distraught to wage war.”
Herod shook his head again. “I would be distraught if I lost my beloved Mariamne, but I would never be too distraught to fight. I would be bent on vengeance.”
He glanced at Costobar, and my husband only shrugged. “Perhaps we should have killed Cleopatra when we had the opportunity.”
Herod acknowledged the remark with a wry smile, then folded his hands. “The answer is simple—the legionaries will not make war against Antony because he is one of them, a true Roman soldier. But Cleopatra is not Roman, and the legionaries would enthusiastically make war against a woman accused of luring Antony away from Rome. So Antony will be drawn into the fray, and he will end up fighting his own men—if his men will fight against fellow Romans.”
