King's Shadow: A Novel of King Herod's Court

by Angela Hunt

  At sunset, Herod sent for me. I went to his chamber alone and found him sitting at his desk, his face lit by a single candle. “I am going to Rhodes to see Octavian,” he said simply. “While I am gone, Soemus will be in charge of the government. I want you to observe everything that happens while I am away, and I will expect a full report when I return.”

  “Will you return, brother?” My voice cracked beneath the pressure of repressed emotion. “You were Antony’s most loyal man. How will Octavian receive you—if he receives you at all?”

  Herod gave me a lopsided smile. “What was it our father always said? ‘Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might.’ I am going to offer Octavian my friendship. I hope he will find it an acceptable gift.”

  “Does Mother know?”

  “I will let you tell her after I am gone.”

  Of course he would. Mother was the only woman in the world who made Herod nervous.

  I pressed my lips together, not needing to point out the inherent dangers in his position. Octavian needed Herod as much as he needed Antony, which was not at all. What Octavian needed was Egypt, and he had won it and its riches, ensuring that the grain basket of the world would flow at his command. What did Judea have to offer Rome? We had no treasures, no grain, no politicians save Herod, who had sided with Antony against Octavian up to the moment of Antony’s death.

  Herod was walking into a viper’s pit, and he knew it.

  “In case things go wrong,” my brother added, speaking more slowly, “I am sending you and Costobar, our mother, and your children to Masada. You will be safe there and under guard.”

  I tilted my head, as something seemed . . . wrong. “What of your wife and children?”

  His mouth curved in a rueful smile. “I think it best to send Mariamne, her mother, and her children to the fortress of Alexandrium. Pheroras will take care of them.”

  He was making preparations for the near-certain probability that he would not return. Costobar and I would be safe at Masada, Mariamne and Herod’s heirs would be under Pheroras’s protection at Alexandrium. If Herod died, Pheroras would serve as regent until Alexander, the oldest boy, came of age, who would then rule in Herod’s stead . . . unless Octavian decided otherwise.

  Alexandra would win, and her grandson would inherit the throne of Judea. I could do nothing to stop a Hasmonean victory . . . at the cost of my brother’s life.

  I closed my eyes, resisting the truths he did not speak, as images flashed before me. I saw Herod at thirteen, stumbling over Hebrew words as he read from the Torah; at sixteen, showing me how to string a bow; at twenty, kneeling to look into my eyes and assure me that even at twelve, I was a beautiful girl with nothing to fear from anyone. I smelled the fat in the fire from the wild venison he cooked, tasted the sweet cakes he sneaked away from Hyrcanus’s banquet. I saw Herod at twenty-six, awkward and shy, marrying Doris, holding baby Antipater a year later, a look of thunderstruck awe in his eyes. I saw Herod’s tear-streaked face when our father died, his stuttering shock after learning that our brother Phasael had committed suicide, Herod’s satisfaction when he arranged his betrothal to Mariamne, his boundless joy when he held Alexander, his firstborn from his Jewish queen. Was he thinking of these same moments? Was he ready to leave this life?

  I fell to my knees in front of him. “Be careful, brother. You have always been there for me, and I do not know what I would do without you.”

  “Truly?” Herod’s voice rasped. “Are you sure you would not prefer your husband over me?”

  I blinked in confusion. “What do you—?”

  “In these past few hours I have heard several reports out of Egypt, including news that your husband convinced Cleopatra to ask Antony for Idumea, which is as much my homeland as it is Costobar’s. Apparently your husband wanted to serve a queen instead of his king.”

  My thoughts spun as I lowered my head. The faded images of the past vanished as Herod’s words dredged up a memory I would rather not recall. His spies had been thorough.

  “I should execute him for his treachery,” Herod said, his voice deadly quiet in the darkening room. “Did you know about his ambition?”

  “Herod, you cannot kill him—he’s the father of my children.” I clasped my brother’s feet in desperation. “He made a mistake, true, but he has not pursued the matter. Nothing became of his visit to Alexandria. If Cleopatra had regained Idumea, she might not have chosen Costobar to govern it. She made him no promises, and he has done nothing to incite men against you.”

  “Should I let such treachery go unpunished? Idumea is mine. It is my homeland.”

  “Of course it is. Herod, I admit—and I would never lie to you—that my head was turned when Costobar spoke of ruling Idumea. I loved him deeply, for he was my husband, and he had just given me a son. A son, Herod! A son who could become a prince! But as I thought about it, I realized you would not want to lose even a small portion of your kingdom. And though I love my husband, he is not blood to me, as you are. You are my brother, and you and Pheroras come before everyone else. I would sooner die than disappoint you.”

  The door opened with a complaining screech, and a servant appeared holding a tray. Herod snapped his fingers and gestured toward the door, and the servant disappeared.

  “You did disappoint me. I cannot believe you knew.”

  Herod stared at me, a watchful fixity to his face. I would have despaired of my life had I not remembered his speaking of Masada, where he was sending us to safety. Surely he did not intend to kill either Costobar or me . . . but he had also said we would be under guard. And those guards, at some predetermined time or event, could easily execute us.

  Knowing I had not convinced him to spare our lives, I cast about for some reason, however trivial, to banish the cold gleam from his eye. “Mother will be upset if you kill my husband. Costobar is family, and you know how she feels about family.”

  That remark, born out of despair, seemed to cool Herod’s anger but did not vanquish the frigid glint in his eye. Faced with the threat of our mother’s formidable wrath, my brother would spare Costobar and might one day consider pardoning him, yet he would never again trust my husband.

  If Herod survived his trip to Rhodes . . . and Octavian’s judgment.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Salome

  I did not stand with Herod when he spoke before Octavian, of course, but I heard a full report from the guard Eurus, who routinely traveled as part of the king’s escort. The friendly Idumaean came to see me at Masada and said he would be among the soldiers who would escort my family back to Jerusalem.

  I could see the man was about to burst with news from Rhodes, so I asked him about the trip.

  “Should we wait until your husband returns?” Eurus asked, ever mindful of his manners.

  I waved his concern away. “Costobar is out touring his farms and will not return today. So please, I would love to hear what happened in Rhodes.”

  “You would have been proud of the king,” Eurus began, gratefully accepting the chair I offered. “Herod was brilliant in his planning and his approach. Even Mark Antony would have been impressed.”

  “Indeed.” I sat opposite him and rested my chin on my hand, eager to hear more. “Do tell me everything.”

  The guard returned my smile in full measure. “We sailed into the harbor of Rhodes and caught the legionaries by surprise; they had no idea we were coming. And when the guards confronted us, Herod stepped off our ship like an ordinary commoner—without his diadem, his royal robes, or his sword. He told the captain who met us that he was king of Judea and was seeking an audience with Octavian, if that great man would agree to see him.”

  “Go on,” I urged, a grin tugging at the corners of my lips. “I see the story so clearly when you tell it.”

  Warming to his role, Eurus leaned forward, resting his elbows on his bare knees. “Not long after we went ashore, the summons came. And when we walked into Octavian’s tent, Herod bowed, then stood uprigh
t and firmly proclaimed his allegiance—not to Octavian, but to Antony. He confessed he owed all to the man, and he had given all to Antony, whatever his master needed, including a large amount of food, auxiliary troops, weapons, and other supplies. He also mentioned that he and his army had not been with Antony at Actium because they had been detained by a conflict with the Nabataeans. ‘Even after Antony’s defeat,’ the king said, ‘I remained by Antony’s side to counsel him, but he was too infatuated with the Egyptian queen to rid himself of that fatal monster of a woman. I have come here now to rest my safety on my integrity,’ he said, standing before Octavian as bravely as any man alive. ‘I am not ashamed to declare my loyalty to Antony. But if you would disregard the individual concerned and examine how I requite my benefactors, how staunch a friend I prove, then you may know me by the test of my past actions. I hope the subject of inquiry will be not whose friend but how loyal a friend I have been.’”

  I sank back in my chair, both stunned and impressed by Herod’s insight. He could not have hidden his friendship with Antony, so he made the most of it, offering the same rich friendship to Octavian.

  I brought a hand to my mouth to hide my smile. Father would have been pleased.

  “And that’s not all,” the guard said.

  “There is more?”

  “I haven’t told you what Octavian said in reply.”

  “By all means.” I chuckled. “Don’t let me stop you.”

  The guard leaned forward, resting one elbow on an armrest while he peered at me over his clenched fist. “Octavian looked right at King Herod—just like this—blinked, shook his head a bit, and said, ‘So staunch a champion of the claims of friendship deserves to be ruler over many subjects . . . Antony did well in obeying Cleopatra’s behests rather than yours, for through his folly we have gained you.’”

  “And then,” Eurus said, his face brightening, “Octavian ordered an official decree to be written up and given to the king. So that all might see where Herod stood in his affection, Octavian ordered Herod to ride beside him across Syria on his way to Egypt. On entering Herod’s own kingdom at Ptolemais, our king had a lavish banquet prepared and had Octavian ride next to him when he reviewed his troops. And if that were not enough, our king had eight hundred talents put in a chest and taken to Octavian’s tent as a personal gift.” The guard slammed his fist on the arm of the chair in a burst of enthusiasm. “That ought to seal the deal with Rome!”

  “Indeed.” I stared at the man in dazed agreement. Eight hundred talents? I did not know Herod had so much, if the gift truly had come from his own coffers. Most likely he had confiscated the money from someone or someplace else.

  “So . . . the friendship between Herod and Octavian is official, but is it genuine? Did this new Caesar seem to like Herod, or will we forever have to doubt his loyalty?”

  “I would say it’s genuine.” The guard leaned back and grinned, revealing a wide gap where two front teeth should have been. “Before they parted, Octavian agreed to return the territories annexed by Cleopatra, and Octavian also gave the king Samaria and Strato’s Tower. Herod was so pleased that he declared Strato’s Tower would be rebuilt and renamed Caesarea in honor of Caesar.” The guard motioned me closer and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Everyone knows Octavian’s best friend is Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, but everyone with us kept saying Herod had become Octavian’s second-best friend. The bond is strong, my lady, and will certainly last as long as Herod wishes to occupy his throne. Caesar all but guaranteed it.”

  “So Herod is coming home.”

  “Soon, I’d say.”

  “Good.” I sat back and savored the news, then reached for my purse, determined to give the guard a coin or two.

  Eurus thrust out his hands and shook his head. “I would not think of accepting payment for sharing good news, my lady. I am happy to fight for our king. Only in this case, I was glad we did not have to fight at all. Octavian said if our king had been fighting with Antony at Actium, well, he would have been forced to treat Herod differently. But thanks to HaShem, your brother did not lift his sword against Rome, so his future is assured.”

  Was it? After dismissing the guard, I sat and pondered what I had just heard. Had God ordained my brother’s future by sending him to battle Malichus instead of Octavian? Or was Herod simply the most fortunate man who ever lived?

  Either way, he had won a great victory when he should have been executed. Best of all, Alexandra’s dream had been vanquished . . . without any help from me.

  By the time my children and I arrived back at the palace, I had realized the full implications of what transpired between Herod and Octavian. I knew the meeting with Rome’s new Caesar had fortified Herod’s position and that of our family. No longer would my brother have to handle the Hasmoneans with careful diplomacy, no longer would he have to scrape before his supercilious mother-in-law. Alexandra had lost Cleopatra as a confidante, and she would no longer be able to send images of her handsome children to entice Antony’s lusts.

  I also realized my husband was playing a dangerous game he was not likely to win. One day I looked through his farm reports and saw names that rang a distant bell in my memory. By the time Costobar arrived home that night, I confronted him with the reports and demanded an explanation. I received one, and as a result I could not sleep that night. Soon I would have to take action.

  Zara was still unpacking my trunks when my mother entered my apartment. Ignoring Zara, she sat on the edge of a chair and gripped her walking stick. Her eyes gleamed as she regarded me, and I knew she was eager to discuss something. But she would speak to me only in private.

  “Zara”—I smiled at Mother—“would you leave us now? You can finish unpacking later.”

  Zara left the room without a word, leaving Mother and me alone.

  “Mariamne and Alexandra,” she finally said, each word a splinter of ice, “are due to return tomorrow.”

  I shrugged. “We should not be surprised. I’m sure Herod sent for them at once.”

  “This is our opportunity, Salome. We must not let it slip away.”

  I sank to the edge of my bed. “Perhaps I could better understand, Mother, if you explained yourself. Why should we worry about Alexandra now? Hyrcanus is dead. Aristobulus is dead. There are no more mature male heirs.”

  Mother snorted. “Do you think such an insignificant fact would stop a woman like her? She will invent heirs if necessary. She will declare herself queen regent until Mariamne’s sons are old enough to reign.”

  I fell silent, for Mother had a point. I had once imagined a similar situation, with Pheroras as the boys’ guardian.

  “Herod commanded Soemus to look after Mariamne in his absence,” Mother went on. “And he gave Soemus the same order he gave Joseph the last time he had to go away.”

  I swallowed a choking cough. “That order did not sit well with our queen.”

  “Nor did it this time, I am sure. Mariamne will be furious when she returns, and she will not welcome her husband with loving arms. Herod’s prospects are higher than they have ever been, and he deserves to be celebrated. When his wife proves unwilling, we must do all we can to point out her unfitness to be queen. How can she deride and debase the man who charmed Octavian? How can she not see that her husband is more clever than any Hasmonean who dared call himself king? Mariamne is not to be tolerated, Salome, and all we have to do is point out her unsuitability. Herod will see it—surely this time he will.”

  Would he? Thus far he had proved remarkably blind when it came to Mariamne and Alexandra. Still, my mother was usually right. She had a gift for seeing a situation more clearly than anyone else.

  I had vowed to do whatever I could to protect my family, my brother, and his throne. How could I do that as long as Mariamne and Alexandra were free to wreak havoc whenever they chose? And for all I knew, they were already at work, perhaps even involving my husband in their nefarious schemes . . .

  I looked at Mother and nodded. “What
ever you do, I will support you. You have my word.”

  Mariamne’s homecoming drama played out as Mother had predicted. Herod had been anxiously waiting to welcome his wife back to Jerusalem, but upon her arrival, Mariamne behaved like an offended virgin when he approached her on the stairs and tried to kiss her. He asked why she was upset; she said he had treated her as a possession, not a wife, by insisting that Soemus kill her upon news of the king’s death. This time Herod responded in anger, roaring that she had no right to question his decisions and insinuating that she must have fallen in love with Soemus in order to think such a thing.

  Mariamne, full of sauce and spite, replied she did not have to obey a man who had murdered her brother and father.

  From where we stood in the downstairs vestibule, we heard more angry voices and slamming doors. The queen’s return, apparently, was not as loving as Herod had hoped.

  I later learned that while they waited in Alexandrium, Mariamne and Alexandra had showered Soemus with presents and attention, flattering and enticing him until they learned the king’s instructions regarding their fates. I do not know why they were surprised by what they learned. Herod had not changed since he gave the same orders years before, so either they were the stupidest women to ever walk the earth or they enjoyed enticing vulnerable men who could not resist their charms.

  When Herod heard from servants who reported the flatteries and gifts, he publicly accused Mariamne of being unfaithful. Standing before his assembled court, he threatened to put his queen on trial. In response, Alexandra, proving to be a greater opportunist than my mother, showed her true self. As a suddenly humbled Mariamne knelt to beg the king for mercy, Alexandra strode forward, grabbed her daughter by the hair and screamed that Mariamne’s impudence had ruined her. I expected Mariamne to react with similar hysterics, but to her credit she remained silent and bore her mother’s accusations without comment or tears.