by Angela Hunt
The words pleased Herod, as I hoped they would. “So be it. I shall find you another husband, if you like.”
“Thank you, my king, but I am in no hurry to remarry. It is enough to live in your house, inhabit your court, and be of service to you.”
“Welcome back to court, Salome.”
I gave him a grateful smile, then turned toward Mother, who watched us with approval and relief in her eyes.
As time passed, the tumult Mariamne and Alexandra caused faded into unpleasant memories. Herod married again—and again—but though he could never seem to find a woman who excited him as much as Mariamne, he did not stop searching for a wife who might fill the emptiness in his heart. After Mariamne, he married Malthace, a Samaritan beauty. Two years later he married Cleopatra of Jerusalem, the daughter of a priest. He had scarcely climbed out of his marriage bed with Cleopatra when he married another Mariamne, the daughter of Simon, son of Boethos.
Malthace gave him two sons, Archelaus and Herod Antipas, and a daughter, Olympias. Cleopatra gave him two sons, Herod Philip and Herod. The second Mariamne also gave him a son named Herod Philip.
I did not know if any of his new wives made him happy, but I did know they could never compare to his memories of Mariamne the Hasmonean princess. Those memories did not fade with time, for in them she seemed to become more rarefied, more beautiful, and more regal.
The love he could no longer lavish on his beloved wife he now lavished on her sons, Alexander, Aristobulus, and Herod. With a secure grip on his kingdom, he looked toward the future and decided to name Mariamne’s sons as his heirs. But first they must be prepared to rule, and who better to see to their education than his friend Octavian, now known as Augustus, emperor of Rome?
In the fourteenth year of Herod’s reign over Jerusalem, when the boys were thirteen, twelve, and eleven, he wrote Augustus and asked if he could send his sons to Rome and entrust the emperor with their care. The emperor responded with enthusiastic approval, and all three boys sailed straightway to Rome, where they were welcomed by Herod’s friend Pollio, who arranged for them to stay in his home. Occasionally, as we learned when the boys sent letters, they resided with Augustus and his wife, Livia, in the imperial palace.
“What an honor!” Herod beamed every time he read such reports. “My sons, guests in the emperor’s home—Father would be so proud.”
“He would,” I agreed. “Even Mariamne would be impressed.”
Why did I mention the wife I had detested with every ounce of my being? Because I knew my brother. Mariamne had constantly reminded all of us that we were common, not royal, and not as Jewish as she and her family. But now the only remaining Hasmoneans were Alexander, Aristobulus, and young Herod, and they were Herodian . . . and royal.
I could not help approving of Herod’s plan to have his sons educated abroad. In Rome they would receive an education appropriate for their rank. In Jerusalem they would have learned about the Torah but would not enjoy Greek theater or observe the workings of Roman law or study artistic statuary. Furthermore, those handsome young men would be maturing in the light of the emperor’s approval. Augustus took pleasure in having them around, if only for ornamentation.
While his favorite sons lived in Rome, Herod began to dream of a glorious future for Jerusalem and Judea. He had always had an eye for outstanding architecture, and his visits to foreign cities had convinced him that Judea needed splendorous buildings of its own. He began to oversee and plan additional palaces, fortresses, theaters, amphitheaters, and harbors. But his greatest project, the one into which he poured his hopes and dreams, was rebuilding the Temple.
His first mention of his Temple plans made me smile. “Do you remember the prophecy?” I asked. “I told you about it years ago. ‘He who restores it to the glory of Solomon’s Temple will have the blessing of HaShem to the fourth generation.’”
“Then I shall be blessed forever,” Herod said, grinning. “For my Temple will surpass the glory of Solomon’s, and the people will finally bless my name and love their king.”
My heart warmed to see Herod’s excitement. For months after Mariamne’s death he had not been able to garner such enthusiasm for anything, not even for his new wives. Now the fire had returned to his eye, and without the Hasmonean thorns in his side, I thought the people might finally learn to love their king.
“And so,” he explained to me one afternoon, “these building projects have several purposes. First, Judea needs strong fortresses where the king and his family can be safe in case of a revolt. Second, I want to increase commerce by creating a port at Caesarea, a station large enough to handle seagoing merchant ships. Third, I want to solidify my standing with the emperor by establishing his name in as many locations as possible. And finally, there is the Temple . . .”
To my great surprise, the Jews of Jerusalem did not enthusiastically support the Temple project. When I asked Zara why they murmured, she said many Jews worried that Herod might pull down the existing structure and run out of supplies before completing the new one.
“That concern is easily remedied,” I told Herod. “You must assemble all the supplies in advance, so the people will not worry. Then you must appoint priests and Levites to oversee the design and execution of the building program. Let them be responsible for the sacred objects and holy places, and let them be accountable to the people.”
Though Herod was reluctant to release authority to the priests and Levites, eventually he agreed. And when his builders completed the main sanctuary in only eighteen months, the people celebrated with a great ceremony at which their king sacrificed three hundred oxen.
Herod also ordered other building projects that did not involve the Jews. He built a more defensible royal palace, a home that far surpassed the old, and an amphitheater and hippodrome, both of which were designed to cater to Jews who had acquired Greek tastes. He built a fortress named Cypros to honor our mother, and a city called Phasaelis to honor our brother.
Not far from Jerusalem, just southeast of a small village called Bethlehem, Herod erected the Herodium, a fortress designed to house a theater, a dining room, and the king’s tomb.
Yet Herod’s grand plans did not enjoy an auspicious beginning. A famine struck the land as he commenced his building program, and the people hungered. Many in Jerusalem interpreted the famine as HaShem’s judgment on Herod. It seemed every unfortunate event was blamed on the king. But Herod saw the trial as an opportunity. Eager to win the love of his people, he converted all the gold and silver ornaments in his palaces into coins, then purchased food from Egypt to feed his people in Judea and Syria. After losing a pair of golden candlesticks and several silver apples to this confiscation, I was dismayed to learn that even though Herod had made a great personal sacrifice to feed his people, still they did not love him.
To the Judeans he was still the man who had replaced—some would say usurped—the Hasmoneans. And even though that year he forgave one-third of the people’s tax debt to help them recover from the famine, they did not love him any more or hate him any less.
Chapter Forty
Zara
By the time I entered my twenty-fourth year, I had decided that marriage would not be part of HaShem’s plan for me. Everyone around me was marrying—in the house of Herod, multiple marriages were common—yet I had no family to find me a suitor, and the handsome prince my aunt hoped I’d meet in the palace never materialized.
The king, however, added another wife to his harem—Pallas, who gave him a son named Phasael.
My mistress fell in love with Syllaeus, prime minister of the Nabataeans. I watched, bemused, as Salome behaved like an infatuated young girl, and when Syllaeus asked to marry her, I hoped she would finally find happiness.
But the king was appalled at the man’s request. He had fought the Nabataeans not so many years before, and he refused Syllaeus, but then relented save one condition: “You may marry my sister,” he told the prime minister, “if you are circumcised and adopt the Jewish
faith.”
Salome watched in horrified dismay as her lover shook his head and left the palace. The king had asked too much, demanding a price Syllaeus was not willing to pay.
I tidied my weeping mistress’s room that night, then sank onto a stool by the bed where she watered her pillow with tears. “Mistress,” I said, lightly touching her arm, “perhaps this is for the best. How strong could his love be if he was not willing to adopt your faith?”
Salome looked up, pulled unraveled hair from her eyes, and stared at me. “How would you know?” she asked, her voice breaking. “You have never been in love, nor have you been married. So how could you understand?”
After that, I left her alone and retreated to my room.
What did I know about marriage? Not much. But she was wrong about my being in love. I had been in love for nine years, though I had nothing to show for it.
After meeting Ravid, I had begun to attend any meeting where he would be teaching. In many ways he reminded me of my father—he was kind, clear in his instruction, and seemed wholly devoted to HaShem. Stories from the Torah and the prophets came to life when he related them, filled with majesty, humor, and awe, and every week I came away with a deeper appreciation for HaShem and for His love of Israel.
Mava did not always go with me to the house meetings, and when she did not, I always found her in the palace and shared what I had learned. After a few months, she touched my arm and stopped me in the middle of the tale of Abraham and Isaac on the mountain. “I know the story,” she said, a sly smile twisting her mouth. “And all the others. I have only been listening because your growing love for the Torah teacher fascinates me.”
“Love?” I blinked at her. “I think he is a good teacher, that is all.”
She shook her head. “If you do not love him, why do you not visit some of the other meetings?”
I opened my mouth to answer and found myself speechless. None of the other teachers was Ravid, that was why. But my attendance had nothing to do with love.
Or did it? I began to notice my reaction to his presence. I had been fascinated with him since the first time I saw him bouncing around in the king’s hall, and he had not lost the ability to hold my attention. I was happy in his presence, even if I had to sit on the floor or skip the evening meal, and I could pick out his voice in a crowd of men. I knew the back of his head, the curve of his cheek, and the pattern of hair on his forearm . . .
Perhaps I did love him. So what? A woman could not walk up and choose a man as easily as she plucked fruit from a tree. More important, Ravid certainly did not love me.
We had become friends, if an unmarried man and woman can be considered as such. After every Torah class, he would walk me back to the palace, conversing on the way. He told me about his family; I told him about mine. He told me about his siblings; I told him about my mistress and her children. He even told me about his wife and son who had died in the war for Jerusalem, and I listened with grave sympathy and remained silent, not wanting to compare my losses with his.
After a year or so, he asked me if I knew Judith, a girl in our Torah class. I replied that I did not know her well, and why did he ask?
“I have decided to marry again,” Ravid answered, locking his hands behind his back, “and think she may be a suitable bride.”
I experienced a blank moment when my head buzzed with words. Then all my yearning and confusion united in one spontaneous exclamation: “You can’t marry her!”
Ravid lifted a brow. “Why not?”
“Because—because she is too young.”
“She is your age, is she not?”
“Yes, but . . .” I shook my head and walked faster. “Marry her, then, if that is what you want.”
But he never mentioned Judith again. Some weeks later, when I brought up the dreaded subject, he replied that Judith had been betrothed to someone else.
Not knowing how to respond, I launched into a detailed description of the new garments Salome had ordered.
Several months later, he asked me about Rachel, the daughter of a Levite. Again my heart rebelled against the notion, but that time, at least, I was able to wish him well on his upcoming betrothal. Still, Ravid did not marry Rachel. I do not think he even approached her father.
Every few months for eight years Ravid would mention some girl in his Torah class, and while I tried to respond with support and affirmation, my base nature could not contain itself. I always found something to remark on—the girl’s appearance, her manner of speech, her laugh, her feet—yet usually I finished by wishing Ravid well in his new marriage. Afterward I would change the subject, talking about Salome, explaining the latest hairstyles from Rome, or describing the antics of the royal children.
I never realized that by talking so much about my mistress, I was giving Ravid the impression that my life—past, present, and future—revolved around my service in Herod’s palace.
If I had been more transparent in my words and actions, I might have saved myself a great deal of heartache.
After nine years of friendship, Ravid and I were walking back from a Temple service when he halted abruptly on the street.
“Stop,” he said, turning to face me. “I am tired and growing old. I must speak my mind, and I would have you speak yours.”
I was not in a listening mood, for my thoughts had been occupied with sad news from Rome. Young Herod, Mariamne’s third son, had been taken with a fever. Despite having the best physicians and care, the young man died. Because the disease disfigured the youth, Augustus convinced Alexander and Aristobulus to entomb their brother in Rome until he could be taken back to Judea.
The king and his family were deeply shaken by the news, and my mistress was particularly bereft. “We should have kept him in Jerusalem,” she had told me. “A king does not need three heirs, so why did we not keep Herod with us?”
I stopped and squinted at Ravid. “I’m sorry, I was thinking about the young prince. What did you say?”
“Your thoughts are always centered on the palace.” Ravid released a sigh. “Clearly you love your mistress, but must you give Herod’s family all your love?”
I resisted the urge to scowl at him. I could not deny that I had strong feelings for the people I served. Though I would never be part of the royal family, I cared deeply for them and mourned the young prince as if he were one of my own relatives.
“What is love,” I countered, “if not a choice to serve someone and put their interests above your own? It is not wrong for me to care about my mistress.”
“Of course not. But is there no room in your heart to care about me?”
I could not have been more surprised if a handful of pearls had slipped from his tongue. “What?”
“I have tried to imagine a home with someone else, but I cannot. Nor can I be content knowing your heart is given to the king’s sister. So make me a happy man, Zara, and marry me. I know I will have to ask your mistress to free you from her service, but if she is willing, I will marry you at once. Live with me as my wife before we are both too old to enjoy each other’s company.”
I stared, all thoughts of the royal family slipping from my head. Marry him? What about Judith and Rachel and Miriam and all the others? And after so many years of friendship, why would he think I did not love him already?
“Why me . . . and why now?” I knew this was not the response he wanted, but if he desired honesty, I had to know why he would ask when I was twenty-four and no longer a young maiden. As an esteemed Torah teacher, he could marry a sweet virgin of fifteen or sixteen, a girl who could easily be molded into the sort of wife he wanted.
“I want to marry you because I love you as Jacob loved Rachel,” he said, taking my hand. “I have waited for you even longer than Jacob waited for Rachel, but I can no longer stand to watch you devote yourself to the palace. I want to marry you because two are better than one. I want to marry you because I want to be with you always. I want to know what you think about things, and I want you to bea
r my children should HaShem grant us that blessing. Please, Zara—let me go to Salome and ask her to release you from your service as her handmaid.”
I shook my head. “Why have you waited so long? I did not think you cared for me in that way. You asked about all those other girls . . .”
“Ah.” He crossed his arms, tugged on his beard, jiggled his knees. “How do I explain? I did not think you wanted to give up your position at the palace. Whenever I mentioned marriage, you could only talk about Salome and the children and the king. I thought you had pledged your life to them, for you seemed so devoted to your mistress.”
“I am,” I admitted. “We’ve been together a long time. But, Ravid, why do you think I search out your Torah classes? I have loved you for years.”
He leaned forward as if he would take me into his arms—on a public street!—and I lifted my hand and stepped back. I looked at him with skepticism, the result of having loved him for so long without a shred of hope that he loved me, as well.
“I cannot give you a final answer now,” I told him truthfully. “Let me go to my room and pray about this. I must also speak to Salome. I will give you my answer tomorrow.”
I thought he might be angry, or at least irritated, yet when he nodded I glimpsed assurance in his eyes. And as he squeezed my hand to bid me farewell, I saw his confident smile.
The man had always been too self-assured as far as I was concerned.
I slept little that night, but the fault did not lie with my mistress. The thoughts that kept me from sleep were my own concerns, and they involved Ravid, Salome, and the entire royal family. When I first met Ravid, I would have burst from happiness had he asked to marry me. I would have abandoned Salome without a second thought.
But the intervening years had brought me closer to my mistress. Indeed, I had come to see her for exactly what she was—a determined, clever woman who would do anything to protect her brother and his throne. I could never hate her as some people did, for I knew her determination sprang from love. Like me, she loved her family and was particularly defensive of Herod. I could not say the king acted from the same motivation. After spending fifteen years in his palace, I had concluded his determination was fueled not by love but by fear.
