by Angela Hunt
I waited for several moments, expecting to hear something—thunder, a voice, perhaps a rushing wind—but I heard only muffled footsteps approaching. When I lifted my head, a Levite stood near me, his head tilting as he studied me.
I sat up. “I was praying,” I said, rising. “And now I will be going.”
“Good.” The Levite dipped his head in an emphatic nod. “I would not make a habit of praying like that.”
Chapter Fifty
Salome
I should have slept well, but I did not. I should have been buoyant with relief that Herod, Antipater, Alexander, and Aristobulus had returned home, at peace and reconciled, but the snake of anxiety still coiled in my belly.
Antipater gave me details as soon as he returned to the palace. “You should have seen it, Aunt,” he began, dropping onto a couch in my chamber. “The emperor heard our case in his home because he said he considered us family. Friends.” Antipater grinned. “I am now a friend of the emperor. I’m sure my brothers never expected to hear that.”
“Go on.” I forced myself to sit across from him. “Tell me everything.”
Antipater leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “Father spoke first, of course, telling Augustus that Alexander and Aristobulus had been plotting against him. He cited reports from servants and friends—”
“Whose friends?”
“Mine.” Antipater gave a lopsided smile. “They were well paid to deliver reports to the king. I only wish they could have come on the journey, for they might have enjoyed meeting the emperor.”
“Did you speak?” I asked.
Antipater’s smile faded. “I did not need to, as I wasn’t the accused. Alexander spoke next, delivering an apology for disturbing the emperor and his father the king. He denied plotting to murder the king and blamed everything on me.”
“He blamed you?”
“But he had no evidence.” A grin winked in and out of Antipater’s thin beard. “I wish I had studied oratory like Alexander. The way he held them spellbound . . . truly an amazing experience.”
“What happened next?”
Antipater leaned back, plucked a pomegranate from a bowl, and rubbed it against his tunic. “The emperor spoke. He talked about peace and family and how we all need to get along for the sake of Judea and the Republic. When he had finished, Father embraced all three of us and said to go home in peace. And upon his death, all three of us would be kings, but I would be the chief power, the primary heir.” He pulled a knife from his belt and cut off the pomegranate’s crown. “As you can imagine, Augustus was the only person pleased with that arrangement.”
I brought my hand to my mouth and looked away. I might have been content with that settlement, but Mother would not have been satisfied. Neither would Mariamne or Alexandra.
I did not believe the strife between our two families could be settled by diplomacy.
“I pretended to be delighted by Father’s judgment, of course,” Antipater said, scoring the pomegranate along its ridges. “Alexander and Aristobulus were clearly displeased, however, which only made me look like the better prince. Soon I will prove myself the better son. I have put plans in motion that should result in my brothers being stripped of their titles, if not worse.”
I watched in fascinated dread as Antipater thrust his thumbs into the top of the fruit and split it, revealing a bounty of crimson seeds. He offered one of the juicy segments to me. “Would you like some?”
His thumb, which had burst some of the seeds, dripped red juice onto my carpets. I forced myself to look away from his stained fingers. “What are you planning?”
“I have been speaking to Pheroras and some of Alexander’s servants. When the time is right, you will understand everything.”
He tossed back a handful of pomegranate seeds, stood, and gave me a kiss on the cheek before departing. I went to my dressing table and stared at my reflection in the looking brass—a bloody smear marred my cheek, stained by Antipater’s kiss.
I looked up as Zara came in, her face pink from her walk to the palace. “Good morning, mistress. You are up early.”
I lifted my chin and studied the girl. No, not a girl any longer, but a mature woman. “Zara, how old are you now?”
She turned, startled. “Mistress?”
“I forget how much time has passed. You were nine when you first came to the palace, so how old are you now?”
She hung her cloak on a hook. “This will be my thirty-second year.”
“Still . . . so young.”
She laughed. “I wish I felt young. I feel like an overripe fruit, always waiting—”
“Waiting for what?”
She shook her head. “I shouldn’t bother you with my personal problems.”
“You have a problem? You always seem so . . . calm.”
She gave me a tight-lipped smile and came to stand behind me. “I am your servant. I am supposed to be calm. Now.” She dropped her hands to the back of my chair. “Do you have any special events today? Now that the king has returned—”
“How do you do it?”
“Mistress?”
“I have just realized—you were going to work for me until you had a child, but you’ve been married . . . how long now?”
“Eight years.” Her tone was clipped.
“I am sorry.” And I was. Though I had never experienced the heartbreak of a barren womb, I had known other sorrows. The grief of not being allowed to wed Syllaeus, the premature deaths of my father and two brothers, and now the constant tension between Herod and his three oldest sons.
“How do you cope?” I turned to look directly into her eyes. “You have obviously been carrying a burden for some time, yet I have never seen evidence of your struggle. I would assume you’ve worn a false face in my presence, but you have always been honest with me.”
“The Torah commands us to speak the truth,” she said, looking away to rummage through a basket of combs and hair needles.
“What else does the Torah command? Does it tell you how to cope with a family that seems bent on destroying itself?”
The question caught her by surprise. She turned, her mouth falling open, and stammered an answer. “I could never tell you what to do, mistress.”
“I’m asking about the Torah. If you were in my situation—” my throat clotted, but I pushed out the words—“if you were pinned between one evil and another, what would you do?”
She took a deep breath, then tried on a smile that seemed far too small. “All I can tell you, mistress, is what the prophet Micah wrote. ‘He has told you, humanity, what is good, and what Adonai is seeking from you: only to practice justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God.’”
Justice . . . mercy . . . humility. Attributes that might benefit a common family, but not a king’s.
I sighed and turned back to the looking brass. “I have to attend the king’s banquet tonight,” I said, straightening in my chair. “Let’s wear my hair in curls, shall we?”
Chapter Fifty-One
Zara
Two more years passed—long years in which I served my mistress, my husband, and Adonai, though my heart no longer took pleasure in serving any of them.
Though Salome guessed my secret grief that long-ago morning in her chamber, I knew she had put the memory from her mind when she invited me to accompany her on a visit to Berenice’s chamber. “She will be eager to show you her new baby.” Salome bent to peer in the looking brass, then patted her hair. “After all, she spent many happy hours of her childhood with you.”
I murmured something about congratulations and silently followed Salome through the winding halls of the new palace. Berenice and Aristobulus had been given lavish rooms adjacent to the outer wall, where the wide windows offered views of the sprawling vista outside the city.
When we opened the door, we were greeted by a chorus of children’s voices. “Grandmother! Savta!” Salome bent to embrace her grandchildren, all except the new baby, who lay swaddl
ed in his mother’s arms.
I stood near the wall and counted heads: Mariamne, age six; Herod IV, age five; Marcus Julius Herod Agrippa, age three; and the newborn, Aristobulus II. After hugging the three older children, Salome moved immediately to the bed and held out her arms. Berenice gently handed over her infant son, and together they cooed at the baby and compared chins and noses.
I watched as long as I could, then quietly turned and left the room.
I was happy for my mistress, truly I was. I was happy for Berenice, who had grown up to be a lovely and kind young woman. But with each child born into the king’s household, my heart shriveled a little.
Why did HaShem allow those women to prosper when they cared so little for the things of Adonai? Why did HaShem quicken their wombs year after year and bless them with children? Why?
I knew the stories of Rachel and Rebecca and Sarah, barren women who conceived after a struggle because HaShem heard their prayers. But those stories did little to ease the twisting of my heart when I lay beside a husband who had lost a child and desperately longed for another. Once, before we were married, Ravid had been teaching when he remarked, “The first mitzvah in the Torah is ‘be fruitful and multiply.’ One who does not intentionally fulfill this mitzvah is akin to a murderer, for he is depleting life and minimizing God’s presence in the world.”
Was it my fault? Ravid could father children; he had already done so. So was I guilty of depleting life? Was I being disobedient to Adonai?
At night, as I lay next to my husband, I stared at the ceiling and asked HaShem why Salome and Berenice should be so blessed and my portion so meager. And then, closing my eyes and drifting off to sleep, I often thought I could hear Him reply, Wait a little while, my child, wait a little while.
But how long was a little while?
Chapter Fifty-Two
Salome
For the next two years, Antipater kept up his slanderous campaign against the sons of Mariamne. He continued to pay spies to spread false stories until finally, when the king had heard enough, he had several of Alexander’s friends arrested. When they would not speak against Alexander, Herod had them tortured.
The news horrified me. I had never heard of free men being tortured, only slaves, for everyone knew slaves could not be trusted to voluntarily reveal the truth. I pressed Pheroras for details, and he quickly pulled me into a quiet hallway. “Herod would not like me to tell you this.”
“Why shouldn’t you? There should be no secrets between us.”
“But you are a woman, and women do not . . .” He glanced at my indignant face and sighed. “They begin with first-degree torture.”
“What is that?”
“Beating of the soles of the feet, perhaps beating of the back. If that does not elicit the desired confession, they move to second degree.”
I crossed my arms and lifted a brow, waiting.
Pheroras sighed again. “Second degree involves the breaking of bones or the pulling of teeth. They have devices that can crush a man’s knees and feet.”
I closed my eyes and forbade myself to shudder. After all, I had asked for this. “And if that does not obtain the desired information?”
“You do not want to know.”
“We’ve been through this, brother. I want to know what Herod has been doing to Alexander’s friends.”
“Third degree.” Pheroras lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper, as if the words were too horrible to speak in a normal tone. “This involves spikes, blades, boiling oil, and fire. Most men do not survive third degree, if it persists.”
The walls around me began to sway, so I reached for Pheroras’s arm and steadied myself. “And Alexander’s friends?”
“Several of them have already died. One of them, however, did confess that Alexander was planning regicide. That confession, I’m afraid, has irrevocably turned the king’s heart against Mariamne’s sons.”
“But so many of those young men died without making a confession. They were willing to give their lives rather than confess to something false!”
“Antipater was with the king when the jailer brought that news, and when our nephew observed that the king grew thoughtful, he praised the dead men’s loyalty. ‘To have such friends,’ he said, ‘men who would die rather than betray your secret!’ He then produced a letter from Alexander to Aristobulus, a letter listing details of how the king would be murdered by poison.”
I covered my mouth and turned away—I had heard enough. Leaving Pheroras, I walked toward my apartment with a thickly beating heart, my shoulders weighed down by grief.
I understood—and so did Antipater—why the threat of poison so alarmed Herod. Poison, administered by a so-called friend, killed our father. He had come home from a banquet with Hyrcanus and fallen to the floor in a seizure. I wrapped my arms around him, begging him to calm himself, to breathe, but to no avail. The physician, who arrived too late, said I could not have saved him.
At the end of the hallway I turned back and saw that Pheroras had moved to a window. “Brother,” I called, “what has the king done about this?”
Pheroras shifted and regarded me, an aura of melancholy radiating from his lined face. “He has put Alexander in prison.”
The old feelings of grief and loss overwhelmed me, just as they had when our father died. Antipater had woven his web, and I could do nothing to save Alexander.
Over the following weeks, Alexander wrote a long document outlining his defense. Herod might have softened after reading it, but in his letter Alexander named me and Pheroras as guilty parties, claiming we had spread stories and forged letters. He even claimed I had entered his bedroom and forced him to sleep with me. I was shocked speechless when I heard that report, because until that moment I had believed Alexander to be a lover of truth.
Had Herod’s sons gone mad, or had they been driven to these extreme behaviors by desperation?
I was bereft, convinced matters would proceed to the inevitable bitter end, until King Archelaus of Cappadocia arrived in Jerusalem to seek after his daughter, Glaphyra, Alexander’s wife. Apparently she had written her father with news of our troubled household. After spending an afternoon with her, he went to the prison and appeared to be furious with his son-in-law. He demanded an audience with Herod, where he declared he would have the marriage set aside so that he could take his daughter home to Cappadocia.
The man was as devious as Antipater, only for far more noble purposes. As Herod heard Archelaus denounce and ridicule Mariamne’s eldest son, his slumbering love for Alexander awakened and he began to defend the young man. By the time the meeting had ended, Herod had released Alexander from prison and Glaphyra had fallen to her knees and thanked her father with grateful tears.
As for me, I was glad Alexander had been restored to his wife, yet nothing had really changed. Antipater, Alexander, and Aristobulus were still caught in a triangle of resentment from which none could escape unscathed.
And I was still bound by a deathbed promise to keep the Hasmoneans from the throne.
In the twenty-eighth year of Herod’s reign in Jerusalem, my brother stumbled into a situation from which no one could protect him. For several years Nabataean raiding parties had been crossing into Judean territory and terrorizing villages. Herod’s generals attempted to subdue the raiders, but when two new Roman officials, Saturninus and Volumnius, took control in Syria, Herod informed them of the raids and demanded the offenders be punished.
To placate Herod, Saturninus and Volumnius gave him permission to attack a Nabataean town called Rhaepta. When Herod’s attack was successful, he reported the outcome to Rome.
But Syllaeus, my former lover, went to Augustus and exaggerated the devastation. While 25 Nabataeans had been killed, Syllaeus reported it as 2,500 deaths. Augustus asked a blunt question: did Herod cross the border with a military force? The answer, of course, was yes.
Herod’s action infuriated the emperor who had once been his friend. Augustus wrote Herod, declaring that my
brother was no longer a friend but a subject. Devastated by the misunderstanding, Herod immediately sent envoys to explain what had happened, but Augustus would not grant them an audience.
I had not seen Herod so low since the days following Mariamne’s death. His loss of the emperor’s friendship not only saddened but terrified him. Although Augustus loved peace, he had no qualms about ridding his kingdom of men who ventured beyond their authority. Herod’s political troubles, combined with the constant quarrels of his wives, his failing health, a falling-out with Pheroras, and the tumultuous relationship with his sons all left him paralyzed with indecision.
I visited him several times, promising my support and attempting to help him recognize his many successes, but my brother had become completely paranoid. I was glad he welcomed my company—indeed, he seemed to prefer my company to any of his wives’. Yet my heart ached to see my once-strong brother reduced to a state of anxiety.
One afternoon, as we sat together on a sunny balcony, he turned to me. “Did you know Pheroras is in love with a slave? That is why he would not marry Salampsio or Cypros. Can you imagine? A slave! A man once married to Mariamne’s sister, a Hasmonean princess, now sleeps with a slave woman.”
I stared at him, my heart pounding. “I . . . I had no idea.”
“He meant to keep the news from us, of course, but I have spies in his palace. In a few months, his slave will give birth to his child.”
I said nothing but covered my mouth, grateful that our mother was no longer alive to hear this news.
“I do not know—” Herod’s voice broke as he looked toward the horizon—“I do not know what to do, Salome. You are the only person in this house who understands and supports me. My wives squabble all day, shoving their children in my face as if they could replace my firstborn.” A tear trickled from the corner of his eye. “Mariamne’s sons, the boys who were once the apple of my eye, now wish me dead. And Augustus, who had proved to be as steadfast as he is generous, now refuses to meet with me.”
