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

by Angela Hunt

  Yet I could also understand fear. I had known loss and terror, so I could appreciate why Herod might be terrified by anything that threatened what he had strived so hard to achieve.

  Salome and I had been together a long time, and I could not simply walk away. Though she would not want to admit it, she depended on me and I understood her. We had formed a unique bond, and when—if—she found someone to replace me, she might never find a handmaid who could interpret her moods like I could. Especially since she was now forty-five and feeling the advance of passing years.

  What if she did not give me permission to go? What if the king forbade me to leave his sister?

  I could always escape, but Salome might be angry enough to search for me. If she refused my request, I could remain at the palace, but Salome would always remember I had wanted to leave and she might hold that desire against me.

  She would ask why I wanted to go. If I cited love as a reason, she would mock me, because all she knew of it was the irrational obsession Herod demonstrated for Mariamne and the frustrated passion she felt for Syllaeus, the man she could not marry. She would urge me to love Ravid in private, to become his mistress if necessary, but to remain at the palace because she needed me.

  And that, no matter how much I might desire it, was something I could not do. Ravid could not take a mistress and remain the righteous man he was. If he were not a man completely committed to HaShem, I would not admire and love him as I should.

  So perhaps I should not even mention marriage to Salome, but instead should simply continue as I was. Yet if I ignored Ravid’s question, I would lose him. He would stop seeing me, saying the pain was too great, or he might disappear into the desert and join the Essene community. Or he might decide to forget me and look for a wife who would accept his request.

  And I would feel terrible, for not only would I be denying myself happiness but I would shutter a light that shone through me in a palace where most people walked in darkness, not knowing that HaShem yearned to speak to them . . .

  I closed my eyes and watched memories play on the backs of my eyelids—Ravid smiling at me over a meal with friends, passionately explaining HaShem’s love for individuals, his eyes finding me when I entered a room. His voice echoed in my thoughts, booming one instant, tender in the next. I recalled each time our hands touched as I handed him a parchment or a scroll, each time my shoulder brushed his, how the brilliance of his smile warmed my heart on a chilly night.

  Ravid had revealed truths I had never heard at the Temple, insights even my father had never shared. I understood him well enough to know that the grief over his wife and unborn child had abated, and perhaps I had something to do with that healing. He laughed at my paltry jokes, something not even my mistress did, so perhaps I brought him some measure of joy . . .

  By the time I opened my eyes again, I had made my decision.

  Salome did not send for me until almost midday. She had slept late, and with dark circles beneath her eyes her face reflected every one of her accumulated years.

  She leaned toward the dressing table, resting her head on her open hands as though she lacked the strength to hold it up. “Zara,” she groaned. “Please, something to drink. Wine, if you can find any.”

  I was afraid I would have to go down to the kitchen, but beyond the bed, on the floor, I found a nearly depleted wineskin. An overturned cup lay beside it, so I set the cup on the table and carefully poured the wine. My hands trembled in anticipation of the request I had to make, and Salome noticed my nervousness.

  Her sharp eyes flew to my face when I handed her the wine. “What’s this?” She brought the cup to her lips. “My handmaid has a secret?”

  “Not a secret.” I thought about making up an excuse for my trembling, but Salome had always appreciated directness. “A request.”

  She sipped the wine, then closed her eyes and sighed. “Ah. Last night has left me quite exhausted. New lovers always do.”

  “Syllaeus? I thought—”

  “We have decided not to marry. That does not mean we cannot enjoy each other.”

  She turned back to the looking brass and regarded me in the reflection. “Do you wish to have a day to spend with your Torah teacher? You may go. I will not be entertaining anyone this afternoon.”

  I caught a breath. “I wish for more than a day, mistress. Ravid has asked me to marry him. I told him I would have to think about it, but really I knew I would have to decide whether or not to leave you. Years ago I promised to serve you, but the time has come—I am now asking you to free me from that promise.”

  A glimmer of confusion entered her eyes. “You promised . . .” She frowned. “Tell me, how much do you remember of your coming to the palace?”

  “I remember arriving here, meeting you, going to my room—”

  “Not those details.” She shook her head. “Joseph made the arrangements for you to become my handmaid. Do you remember him?”

  I searched my memory. I had been so young and so easily intimidated. I remembered a man escorting me to the palace, but the image of his face eluded me. “I am sorry, mistress, but I cannot picture him.”

  Salome sighed. “No matter. He told me about the deal he struck with your family. They agreed to let you come to the palace, but only if you could be free to leave anytime you wished. I will honor that agreement, of course. Because you have served me well, young friend, and I want you to be happy.”

  At the conclusion of her speech, she lifted her cup and drank deeply.

  “Mistress?”

  She held up a finger, silently urging me to wait. When she had drained the cup, she lowered it and looked at me with heavily lidded eyes. “You have always been free to depart, yet I do not want you to go. So let us strike another bargain. Marry your Torah teacher, live with him, but come to the palace every morning. Continue as my handmaid, because skilled handmaids are difficult to find.”

  A flicker of hope stirred in my breast. “I would like that, mistress, but . . . what if I have a child? I could not possibly care for a child, a husband, a home, and a mistress.”

  “Then let us negotiate a truce. Marry your scholar and work for me until you have a child. After that, you may go, and I will find another handmaid. But you will have to train her.”

  I closed my eyes, wondering if I should feel guilty for the wave of relief washing over me. The thought of marrying so late in life, of leaving everything I found comforting and familiar—this would be a welcome compromise. I would spend my evenings with Ravid and my days with Salome. He would spend his days at the Temple and his nights with me. Surely such an arrangement would make both of us happy—all three of us, if I included my mistress.

  “You can go home every day after you dress me for dinner. If I need you after sunset, I will call”—she gave me a tipsy smile—“someone else.”

  “Thank you, mistress.” My heart sang with delight. “Thank you for being more generous than I expected.”

  “Go find your man, give him the good news.” She waved me away, then held up her hand. “Wait! Before you go, more wine. Please.”

  My heart pounded as I took the cup, ran to the wineskin, and emptied its contents. I pressed the cup into Salome’s hand. “May I go now?”

  “Go.” Her fingers curled around her drink. “God go with you.”

  “He does. Oh, He does!”

  The last thing I saw before leaving her chamber was her melancholy reflection in the looking brass.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Zara

  I opened my eyes to the light of a new morning and turned to look at my husband. Moving carefully so as not to disturb him, I felt like a child with a new toy. I had a man now, a husband of my own. An intelligent, righteous, handsome man.

  I smothered a smile when I saw his nose smashed into the pillow, bent at an awkward and possibly painful angle. His beard lay like a dark shadow on his throat and chest. His face had been tanned by hours spent in the sun, while his shoulders were nearly the color of the lin
en sheet over us.

  Ravid. My husband. My love.

  One eye opened, staring at me with deadly concentration. I managed a trembling smile, and then his hand caught mine and squeezed it. “Are you sorry?” he asked as he slid his face closer to mine.

  “Why would I be?” I replied.

  He shrugged. “You’ve slept alone for so many years, but now there’s someone taking the blanket.”

  “And snoring.” I moved closer to him. “I don’t mind sharing the blanket. And now you will say I snore, too.”

  “You don’t. At least I didn’t notice.”

  He kissed me, then relaxed, his arm coming to rest casually across my bare shoulder. “So, what shall we do today?”

  “I will prepare a tray for you to break your fast,” I said, pulling away. “Then I must get to the palace. Salome will be up before too long.”

  “Will you ever get a morning when you do not have to run away from me?” Ravid asked.

  “Yes.” I pulled my tunic over my head, then grinned. “Salome has promised I can leave her when we have our first baby. I will be free to stay home with you then.”

  As my husband sat up, folded his hands and smiled, I began pulling bread and cheese from a basket. Marriage, I realized, had turned out to be unexpectedly pleasant.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Salome

  During the summer of my mother’s seventy-sixth year, the king’s physician sent for me. I hurried to Herod’s chamber, afraid my brother had been stricken with some sudden disease, and found him pale and trembling.

  “It is Mother,” he said, his eyes filling with tears. “The physician says she will not live to see another sunrise.”

  My hand went to my throat. “Is she . . . able to speak?”

  “She is, and she is calling for you. I have already met with her and said my farewells.”

  I tried to sort through my scrambling thoughts. “Have you sent for Pheroras?” The year before, with Augustus’s permission, Herod had named our brother tetrarch of Peraea, an area east of the Jordan and north of the Dead Sea. He and his wife now lived there.

  Herod dipped his chin in a reluctant nod. “I have, but I doubt he will arrive in time.” For a moment I thought he would collapse in my arms, but we were not alone. Malthace was in the room, and I knew he would not show weakness before one of his wives.

  I drew a deep breath to calm my pounding heart and hurried to my mother’s chamber. The room had been closed up, the curtains drawn over closed shutters, the space lit only by a flickering oil lamp. Mava, my mother’s handmaid, greeted me with a deep bow, then touched my arm. “She is weak, lady. The doctor says we should not overtax her.”

  Or what? The irreverent thought niggled at my brain as I strode toward Mother’s bed. She lay on her back, her head and shoulders propped on pillows, her hands folded over her belly.

  “Mistress,” Mava said, “your daughter Salome is here.”

  Mother’s eyes flew open, and she scowled. “I have but one daughter—I am not so far gone I would not know her name.”

  I sank onto the edge of Mother’s bed as the handmaid backed away. “I came as soon as the physician sent for me.”

  “Good.” Mother’s eyes had paled over the last several years, but now they gleamed with determination. “There are things you must do for me since . . . since I will not be able to finish.”

  “Anything, Mother. What is it?”

  With an effort, she lifted her head and motioned for me to lean closer. “Your brother will not live forever. You will likely outlive him, being the youngest.”

  My throat tightened at the thought of losing yet another brother. “Perhaps.”

  “You must swear you will do all you can to prevent Herod from naming Alexander or Aristobulus as his heirs.”

  I blinked. She had mentioned his two favorite sons, and if truth be told, I had always liked the boys. They were charming, attractive, and bright, even as children.

  “Why?” I asked. “They are the sons Herod favors most.”

  “Because”—Mother’s eyes sparked as she hissed the word—“if either one of them becomes king, Alexandra has won. Do you not see it? The entire time she lived with us, Alexandra schemed to have her descendants put back on the throne of Judea. So if Herod places the crown on either son’s head, all our struggles and suffering will have been for nothing.”

  I patted her hand, desperate to calm her. “I do not think—”

  “You must think,” Mother rasped. “Imagine the reign of a King Alexander. The people will rejoice and say the glory has returned to Israel. He would appoint his brother high priest, and together they would mirror previous Hasmonean families. In a generation, people will have forgotten us . . . forgotten Herod. Your brother will become a vague memory while the Hasmoneans continue their murderous dynasty. And somewhere beyond the grave, Alexandra will celebrate.”

  I fell silent, realizing she was right. I had been so focused on my new lover and my children of late that I had not thought much about the Hasmoneans. All those who could be king were gone—except for Mariamne’s sons.

  “I was a princess in my family,” Mother said, her voice a broken whisper. “My father was a chief among the Nabataeans. Then Herod betrothed himself to Mariamne . . . and those women entered my life . . . and they never missed an opportunity . . . to call me common.”

  I studied the crimson spider webs beneath the delicate skin of her cheeks. My mother had never been common. She had nerves of iron coupled with innate grace and a fierce, protective way about her. And here she was dying, yet her thoughts were centered on protecting her son.

  Her eyes pinned me in a long, silent scrutiny, and I knew what she was asking. She would not ask this of Herod, because she knew how he doted on those boys. But she would ask it of me, her only daughter, because I was a mother and I understood.

  “Swear to me,” she said, her trembling fingers tapping my wrist.

  “I swear it, Mother. I will do all I can to keep Mariamne’s sons from the throne.”

  Mother closed her eyes and leaned back, her face relaxing into the mask of death. “Do not fail me . . .” she murmured. She drew another halting breath and exhaled slowly.

  I waited, tears streaming over my cheeks, but my mother did not breathe again.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Zara

  Life for me settled into a different but pleasant pattern. After spending time with Ravid every morning, I went to the palace and attended Salome, who never rose until midday. I did her hair, listened to her many complaints about Judea and its people, and helped her dress. Sometimes I listened to her children, who were growing up all too quickly. Alexander and Herod were already young men, and not fond of visiting with women, but Berenice, Salome’s eldest daughter, was seventeen; her son Antipater, only fifteen; and her youngest daughter, Phebe, a tender twelve.

  Salome had never seemed particularly close to her children, preferring to consign them to the care of nursemaids, so perhaps it was only natural that they began to confide in me. Berenice told me she wished to marry a king one day, Antipater confessed to being terrified of battle, and young Phebe crawled into my lap and said she hated living in the palace. I did not betray their secrets but listened intently, nodded in the appropriate places, and promised to pray for them. That promise always caught them by surprise, but soon they began to return to me, asking if I would take other requests to HaShem.

  “I don’t know why,” Phebe said, “but I think HaShem listens to you.” I assured her that HaShem listened to anyone who spoke to Him, but as long as she needed me to add to her prayers, I was happy to do it.

  I knew Salome would learn of her children’s trust in me, and she did. But instead of being jealous or hurt, she seemed amused that her royal offspring would choose to confide in a handmaid with no authority or influence of her own. Clearly she placed no confidence in the power of my prayers, though I did not care. What mattered was her children—that they had someone to talk to, som
eone who would not take their secrets and use them as currency in political power plays.

  Yet as I listened to Salome’s children, I could not help but yearn for children of my own. I knew Ravid wanted children very much. He had been thrilled to hear he would be a father when his first wife conceived, but he had lost both wife and child. Now he had another wife, though I was far from young, and I knew he was praying for a son.

  I prayed, too. I often read the story of Hannah at the Tabernacle, of how she prayed so fervently that the high priest thought her drunk. As time passed and I did not conceive, I began to understand Hannah’s frustration. I longed for a child like a starving tiger longs for food, but I did not dare make Ravid feel guilty about not doing his part to answer my prayers. He did everything he should—he treated me with kindness and loved me with tender consideration, yet month after month I remained barren.

  In the first months of our marriage, we often stretched out and talked about what our children would be like. “They will have your eyes,” Ravid said, his thumb caressing the back of my hand. “And it would be nice if they were tall like me.”

  “I hope they inherit your love of the written word,” I said. “And I hope you will promise to teach our daughter to read.”

  “You have my promise.” Ravid kissed my cheek. “I will read to her every night.”

  “I hope our daughter doesn’t have long feet.” I sighed. “I have always been self-conscious about mine.”

  “‘How lovely are your sandaled feet, O nobleman’s daughter,’” Ravid quoted. “‘The curves of your thighs are like jewels, the work of a craftsman’s hand.’”

  I laughed, imagining my feet and thighs on a king’s wife. “You are too funny, my love.”