by Angela Hunt
“Those are important considerations,” I said, realizing just how formidable a challenge Antony would face. “What will you do? I know you are beholden to Antony, but if he is not able to win . . .”
“I do not know.” Herod’s mouth twisted, bristling the whiskers above his upper lip. “But I will give him my best advice and hope he will take it.”
I lifted a brow. “And that is?”
“I will tell him to have Cleopatra killed and take Egypt for himself. He is the father of three heirs, so the people will accept him. Then he can approach Octavian with his hands outstretched, offering Egypt, breadbasket of Rome, as a prize. Octavian will be pleased, the Roman Senate will proclaim Antony divine, and the people will be solidly on his side.”
“Good advice,” Pheroras said. “But will he take it?”
Herod scratched his beard. “I do not know. All will depend on whether Antony is willing to be ruled by his head instead of his heart.”
Nine months after my marriage to Costobar, Zara attended me while I gave birth to my first child. The royal midwife caught the child, announced that I had given birth to a healthy boy, and handed the baby to Zara.
“Give him to me,” I cried, extending my arms toward the squalling infant.
Zara made a face. “Would you not prefer that I clean him first?”
“No, just give me my son.”
Zara leaned in and passed the baby to me. I beheld him—the dark eyes, the wet hair, the white covering on the skin, the smear of blood on his arms—and I thought I had never seen anything more beautiful.
“Are you sure he is healthy?” I asked the midwife. “Is everything in the proper place?”
The woman looked up from the afterbirth she had just delivered. “You have a fine baby boy. He will grow up to make his father proud.” She looked around. “Where is the father? Surely he would like to see his son.”
“He is . . . away.” I held out my hand, and Zara instinctively gave me a damp cloth. I used it to wipe my son’s skin, cleaning him even as he wailed and clenched his tiny fists.
“I do believe he has strong lungs,” I laughed. “Wait until Herod sees. And Costobar—he will be so happy.”
The midwife gave me a pointed look. “Are you sure your husband did not want a daughter?”
“He will father a daughter next year or the year after. But this little boy is his heir.” I pressed a kiss to my babe’s tiny forehead, then handed him to Zara. “Please swaddle him. I will nurse him in a moment.”
I waited until the midwife finished her ministrations, then gently waved her from the room. I had things to say, but I did not want a woman I barely knew to hear them.
Zara wrapped the baby in soft linen and helped me settle him at my breast. She stood back and smiled. “Look how strongly he nurses! He is a most unusual newborn.”
My heart overflowed as I studied my son. “He is the son of a governor and the nephew of a king. Not at all common, no matter what Mariamne says.”
“Have you decided on a name?”
“I will name him Alexander, of course. He will share the name with many great men.”
“I have always thought it a fine name.”
“He will be the first Alexander in Costobar’s line.” I smiled down at my beautiful boy. “And his father will take great pleasure in him.”
Zara began to clean up after the midwife. Watching her work from the corner of my eye, I asked a question that had been weighing on my mind for some time. “What think you of your new master?”
Zara lifted her head, her eyes widening. “Which master do you mean?”
“Costobar, of course. I have never heard you give an opinion. Do you like him?”
From the astounded expression on her face, I might well have asked what she thought of Octavian or the Roman Senate. “He is . . . admirable,” she answered, her voice unsteady. “He is good to me.”
I lowered my voice to a whisper as the baby’s eyelids closed. “He is his own man. Though I love my brother deeply and would do anything to protect him, I am glad Costobar does not depend on Herod for everything. He has plans of his own. He was reluctant to tell me about them at first, but once he learned to trust me—” I paused, then smiled—“I like a man who can think for himself. His clan did not capitulate when John Hyrcanus required the Idumaeans to become Jews, and Costobar does not pretend to be Jewish by going through the motions at the Temple. He comes from a long line of men who were priests of Quas. He is proud to be Idumaean.”
Zara nodded but showed no sign of genuine interest. Still, I needed to tell someone what I had learned, and who else in the palace could I trust? Zara would not breathe a word of my secrets.
“Costobar has gone to Alexandria,” I continued, lowering my voice even further. “He is going to ask Cleopatra to ask Antony to restore her control over Idumaean lands. If she agrees, Costobar will swear allegiance to her, and in return, she could—she should—declare him ruler over Idumea.” I looked down at the sleeping baby in my arms. “If this comes to pass, I am hoping this child will be a prince, son of the king of Idumea.”
Zara froze, giving me a warning look that put an immediate damper on my spirit. “Would your brother approve of your husband’s request? He would lose control of lands he possesses—”
“Why shouldn’t Herod approve? Idumea would remain in the family. Besides, if Antony is not inclined to transfer Idumea to Egypt, nothing will come of it and Herod need never know.” I forced a laugh, yet it sounded artificial even to my ears. “Herod wants to tell Antony to kill Cleopatra, but I do not think the man can be convinced. If he wanted to be rid of her, he would have left her years ago.”
Zara said nothing. Instead she ducked her head and continued cleaning.
I would have appreciated some sign of agreement, some assurance that I was doing the right thing by supporting my husband, but my handmaid knew little about politics or international affairs.
No matter, for my happiness did not depend on Zara’s enthusiasm. I had a husband who loved me, a beautiful son, and my brother was secure in his kingdom. All was well with my world.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Salome
I expected the birth of my second child to go as easily as the first, but apparently my body had forgotten what was required in order to bear fruit. Once again, Zara attended me with the midwife, but this time Costobar paced outside my chamber, cursing and sweating as I groaned and screamed.
A full day after the birth pangs began, the midwife finally pulled the baby from me and announced the arrival of our second son. My husband immediately poured drinks for any man who passed in the hallway, and a few moments later he disappeared, presumably to share the news with Herod and others in the royal court.
Zara admired the baby as she bathed him. “He’s a fine, fat boy, with all his fingers and toes. Have you decided on a name?”
“Herod.” I pushed my sweaty hair from my forehead. “After my brother.”
“Along with Mariamne’s son?”
“I do not care. Have we worn out the name Alexander?”
Zara wrapped linen around the baby and handed him to me. “No one is likely to confuse your lad with the other. Mariamne’s son is thin and pale. Yours is ruddy and handsome—a perfect combination of your beauty and your husband’s strong features.”
I ignored the insult to my nephew—no one had ever described Mariamne’s third son as handsome—and studied my baby with an analytical gaze. Zara was right. This child was attractive, with a heart-shaped face, long lashes, a perfect nose, and a strong chin. He looked more like a king than Mariamne’s third son ever would.
Such a pity, then, that neither of my sons would sit on a throne.
Nothing had come of Costobar’s trip to Alexandria, because Antony refused to grant Cleopatra’s request. Costobar would never be king of Idumea, and that was probably a good thing.
I had decided we were fortunate Herod did not learn about my husband’s attempt to win a throne of his own.
I hoped my brother would not care, but as the months passed and I thought more about it, I realized he would be furious if he knew Costobar had acted without his knowledge. I hoped they might work together with Idumea as a shared kingdom, but since that time I had learned that some men, including Herod and Costobar, did not like to share. Herod would not be happy to lose a single cubit of territory, and Costobar would not be willing to yield his authority.
Men. I did not always understand their stubbornness, but when I heard that Antony refused to grant Cleopatra’s request for Idumea, I realized Herod would likely refuse me if I asked him to surrender that territory to Costobar. While love might be strong enough to bind a king’s heart, it was far too weak an inducement to relinquish one’s power.
A week after I gave birth to Herod III, Mariamne had a baby girl, whom she named Cypros in honor of my mother. Since she could barely endure being in the same room as my mother, I knew Herod had named this infant.
Another year passed in relative peace, though all did not go well for my brother. Though the women in the palace managed to maintain an unspoken truce—perhaps because Mariamne and I kept busy having babies, and our mothers kept busy doting on them—life was not peaceful outside the walls of Jerusalem.
The sixth year of Herod’s reign brought great darkness to Judea. The one bright light in the king’s life was the birth of my daughter, Berenice. He stopped by my chamber to congratulate me and take a peek at his new niece. “She is lovely,” he said, peering at the infant’s pinched face. “Her face will smooth out after a while, right?”
I resisted the urge to frown and gave him a sisterly smile instead. “Your babies looked very much like this, brother, and all of them are handsome now.”
“Especially the third boy, Herod.” He grinned at me and clapped Costobar on the shoulder. “Congratulations to both of you. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to meet with my generals.”
Octavian and Antony were earnestly at war with each other, and Herod was preparing to send soldiers to aid Antony’s cause. But Antony told him to deal first with Malichus, king of the Nabataeans. Malichus had grown weary of renting territory he considered his own, but after Antony placed Herod over it, Malichus stopped paying rent. Herod and Malichus went to war while Cleopatra supported the Arab king. If he won, she would gain control of Judea, Samaritis, and Galilee, areas currently under Herod’s authority.
My brother had always been a good soldier and skilled commander, so I was not surprised when he defeated the Nabataean army at a place called Dium. He should have won the second battle with the Arab chief, but just when Herod had the Nabataeans on the run, Athenion, Cleopatra’s general, reinforced the enemy army and brought about a turn in the situation. My brother suffered a staggering loss and had to send messengers to sue for peace.
Success made the Nabataeans foolish and bold. Buoyed by their success, they murdered my brother’s envoys and had the temerity to invade Judea. Herod pulled his troops from outlying areas and reinforced the walls of Jerusalem. Those months were among the darkest since the day he had taken Jerusalem.
I thought Herod’s outlook could sink no lower, until one morning when the earth shook and tremors bumped me out of bed. At first I thought Costobar had jarred the bed frame, and then I realized the chamber walls were trembling. I called my husband and glimpsed his form through dust pouring into the room, and together we ran into the open courtyard.
The entire household—servants, slaves, children, guards, even Herod and Mariamne—stood beneath a darkening sky and watched the trees at the gate sway, their branches thrashing as if HaShem had taken hold of them. Then, after an interval woven of eternity, the rumbling slowed and stopped. We stepped over fallen stones and branches and walked back inside to assess the damage.
Forty-five people died in the palace alone, most by injuries from falling stones or bricks. Thousands more died throughout Jerusalem, and several buildings collapsed. During the following week, we learned that vast amounts of property and livestock had been destroyed. The monastery at Qumram, home to the Essenes, had been severely damaged and had to be abandoned.
Herod knew we could rebuild, of course, yet we would need months to recover from the destruction. His new palace, the three beautiful towers—all had suffered damage and would have to be reinforced and repaired.
I had never seen my brother so defeated. His kingdom had been devastated, and his people were suffering from severe emotional and physical losses. His military campaign, which had begun with such promise, ended in defeat, with Antony’s Egyptian lover having acted against him. Antony probably did not even know that Cleopatra had betrayed his client-king. Yet Antony was embroiled in a battle with Octavian, so no help would come from that quarter.
My brother’s ambitions and dreams suddenly seemed ephemeral, as insubstantial as dust.
As desperately as I wanted to help Herod, neither Mother, Pheroras, nor I knew how to encourage his state of mind. Mariamne was no help either, for although he might have been comforted by her beauty and the children she had given him, she cared nothing about political or international affairs. She was content as long as she felt admired and loved, and had always left the political maneuvers to her mother.
As for Alexandra, she should have remained quiet during those dark months. Her greatest ally, Cleopatra, had no time for her, and our resident schemer should have felt eclipsed by the crucial matters threatening the Egyptian queen. But Alexandra was not the sort of woman who could rest, surrender, or forget. Her desire for revenge had not been slaked, and her deathless ambition had not been satisfied. But with her son gone and her daughter content, what pawn could she use to reclaim the throne?
She turned to the only remaining Hasmonean—her father, Hyrcanus, whom Herod had welcomed back to Judea and given a safe place to live. Hyrcanus had been a gentle king, which undoubtedly led to his downfall, and he did not have a warrior’s nature. His daughter, however, had more than enough determination for the two of them. Later I learned that she began to visit him during the time of Herod’s troubles. She encouraged her father to fight for his throne and reclaim the kingdom that had once been his as king and high priest.
But the former king was over seventy years old and had been deformed—someone had purposely ripped off his ears—so he could no longer qualify as a high priest. He had no heart for making the hard decisions a king must make, but he could not ignore the dripping refrain coming from his stubborn daughter.
During her frequent visits to his home, Alexandra begged Hyrcanus to write Malichus, king of the Nabataeans, and ask for asylum. After some time, the former king reluctantly agreed and sent a message to Malichus by Dositheus, a trusted friend. At Alexandra’s bidding, Hyrcanus asked the Arab king for a safe escort from Jerusalem to the Dead Sea.
Yet Alexandra did not know that Dositheus was loyal to Herod, so instead of delivering the message to Malichus, he took it to the king. Rather than order Hyrcanus’s and Alexandra’s immediate execution, my brother instructed Dositheus to deliver the message to Malichus. When Dositheus returned with Malichus’s reply—which granted Hyrcanus’s request—Herod brought the correspondence before his council, a group consisting of our mother, Costobar, Pheroras, and me.
Herod read the letters to us, then dropped the scrolls on the table and waited for our reaction.
“I do not think you have a choice,” Pheroras said, his gaze intent on the documents before us. “He has spurned your offer of a home and sided with your enemy.”
“I am well acquainted with this Hyrcanus,” Mother said, a quaver in her voice. “And he has no stomach for war. This is that woman’s doing.”
“The implication is clear,” I added. “And Mother is right—Alexandra is behind this. If Hyrcanus goes to Malichus, Alexandra will urge him to gather an army to unseat you.”
“I hate to execute the old man.” Herod sighed and propped his foot on a stool. “If he were not such a genial king, my father and I would not have risen to the stations we achie
ved under his reign. He allowed we Idumaeans to accomplish great things, where another king would have kept us under his thumb.”
“A stronger king,” I interjected. “You were able to rise because Hyrcanus refused to lead.”
Costobar shook his head. “Still—”
Herod cut him off with an uplifted hand. “I know. He has committed treason, and he must die. So be it.”
“But make no mistake,” I said, forcing the words through a tight throat. “Alexandra is set against you, brother, and certainly you can see it now.”
I thought he would agree and order her execution as well, but Herod only lifted his head and gave me a weary smile.
“My son is in love,” Mother said, “and he had better be careful. The love that makes him strong can undo him just as easily.”
In later years I often wondered how our fates might have been different if we had killed the queen of Egypt. Antony might have become emperor of Rome. Herod might have been placed over Judea and Egypt, and the world would have been coming to him for bread. Cleopatra would have been a mere name in a long list of Egyptian kings and queens, while Herod would be remembered in a far better light.
But because we did not harm her, the saga of Antony and Cleopatra unfolded in tragic fashion, and the entire civilized world felt repercussions from their unfortunate love affair.
The news reached us before Cleopatra had been entombed—the Egyptian queen was dead, a breathless messenger told Herod’s court, by her own hand, and Antony had predeceased her.
The report from Alexandria ushered a dark cloud of grief into Herod’s palace. The king retired to his chamber, and for several hours he would not admit anyone save the messenger, not even his beloved Mariamne. When I voiced my frustration, Zara suggested the king might be praying, but I knew better. My purely pragmatic brother would not turn to God at a time like this; he would draw upon his wits.
