by Angela Hunt
As I spoke, I realized that the gods of Egypt had done nothing for me. They had not worked a miracle to win my freedom and return me to my parents. They had not heard my prayers, and I had no way of knowing if my parents had prayed at all for my return.
Perhaps they were glad I was gone. Life would certainly be easier without another mouth to feed. I had never been a perfect child, so perhaps they had been relieved, even eager, to send me away.
Shelamzion’s mother scolded me when she heard me describing our gods to her daughter. “You ungrateful, evil girl!” Her eyes flashed. “Shelamzion will worship HaShem and no other. You should not be tempting her with the notion of idols!”
“She is not tempting me,” Shelamzion replied, surprised by her mother’s rebuke. “And Kissa is not evil. She is teaching me about Egypt.”
“That place is well named the Black Land,” Sipporah went on, “for all sorts of evil comes from there. You are not to speak of it again, do you hear? Not a word!”
I pressed my lips together and did not say anything else until Sipporah had gone downstairs. Then I reached out and touched my mistress’s arm. “I am sorry to have offended your mother.”
“You are my handmaid,” Shelamzion replied, though her eyes remained troubled. “I don’t know why Mother does not understand that I can make up my own mind about things.”
I propped my head on my hand and studied my young mistress. We had been together well over a year, but in all that time I had never seen Sipporah demonstrate any sort of kindness for her daughter—no hugs, no caresses, no words of appreciation. Some of the slaves said Sipporah was unpleasant because she still grieved the loss of her husband and eldest daughter, but why should those losses prevent her from treasuring the daughter who remained? Shelamzion was an exceptional little girl, wise beyond her years, well-mannered, and much more clever than I. Yet Sipporah seemed not to care for the child at all.
I wanted to ask Shelamzion if her mother’s inattention bothered her. Clearly she noticed it, because several times she had made passing comments about her mother’s preference for the daughter who had died. But my mistress seemed perfectly content with the way things were.
How could that be?
I opened my mouth, about to pry, then decided to remain silent. For all I knew, the situation troubled Shelamzion deeply, and if that were so, I would not probe the wound and make matters worse. I liked my mistress, and she had been good to me.
I would not hurt her, even if my life depended on it.
Chapter Thirteen
Shelamzion
After beginning her monthly courses, Kissa started to lose interest in playing games. She would play if I insisted, of course, as was her duty, but her attention soon wandered, and I would often catch her looking at the other slaves, looking with particular curiosity at the young men. Her face sometimes wore a distant look, and when I began to tell one of my stories about my famous relatives or life in Modein, at some point I could tell that her thoughts had wandered to a place I could not go.
Exasperated by her inattention, one afternoon I stalked away and went in search of something more interesting. I left the high priest’s house and wandered down the twisty street, dodging carts and pack mules and women carrying water jugs. I found myself at the Temple and walked into the wide open space where the animals were kept in pens until purchased for sacrifice.
What I saw in that place made me sick. A man had pulled a young calf from an enclosure. With no rope to secure the animal, he was chasing it through the area, beating the animal about the head with a stick whenever he could get close enough to land a blow. The terrorized calf bleated hoarsely, a pitiful sound unlike anything I had ever heard—
“Stop!” Not thinking about anything except helping the panicked animal, I ran toward the man, my sandals skimming the stones. “Stop that! You are frightening him!”
The man scowled at me, then turned. “Whose child is this? She shouldn’t be here.”
No one claimed me, for I had come alone. I shrank back, suddenly aware of how vulnerable I was. In truth, I frequently took liberties that would not have been proper for an ordinary girl, knowing I would be excused on account of who my uncle was. But I had never gone into the Temple alone, and never had I acted so impetuously.
I forced myself to calm down. “That is wrong,” I said, pointing to the stick in his hand. “The Torah says an animal offered to HaShem must be perfect and without flaw.”
The man glared at me, then gestured to the bleating calf that stood with its trembling legs splayed, head hanging low. “Do you see any fault in this animal?”
“I do.” I pointed to the animal’s face. “He is bleeding about the eyes on account of your cruelty, and he is terrified. How do you know you have not hurt him in other ways?”
The question had been birthed from desperation, but it was enough to make the gathering onlookers pause for debate. “How does he know?” one Levite murmured to another. “Perhaps the animal does have a fault from this rough handling.”
The man who had purchased the calf was not disposed to discuss the matter. Instead he came toward me. “Get out of here,” he said, his voice a low, angry whisper. “Go home to your mother.”
“I will go home and tell this story to everyone.” I lifted my chin. “I live in the house of Yoḥanan Cohen Gadol.”
The use of John Hyrcanus’s Hebrew name and title was enough to elicit consternation from the circle of observers. But just as I was about to walk away, a priest came over, grabbed my arm, and dragged me from the courtyard.
Uncle narrowed his eyes and peered over the top of the scroll he was reading. He seemed to be studying me, and for a moment I was certain he was wondering if he had invited a demon into his home, for surely only an imp would have run into the Temple courtyard and stopped a man from offering a sacrifice.
The Levite who served as my escort had relayed the entire story, omitting no detail. So I waited—half afraid, half indignant—for the high priest’s judgment.
“Shelamzion,” he said, leaning forward as he lowered his scroll, “what makes you think the calf’s eyes bled for some reason other than the stick? If the bleeding occurred in the act of stunning the beast, the stick could be considered a tool of mercy.”
I gave him a look of horror. “What I saw was not a stunning; it was torture.”
Too late I realized I should have chosen a better word. My uncle had seen enough torture in past years, and he did not need a reminder.
But he did not scold me. “Is it not merciful to stun the animal before cutting its throat? Would HaShem have us be deliberately cruel?”
“HaShem is compassionate and merciful,” I said, reciting one of the lessons Father had taught me. “But beating an animal, especially one so young and frightened, is neither. The man I saw was chasing the calf, laughing and beating it whenever he could, as though it were a game for pleasure. My father taught me that hunting was wrong, for it brings terror to the beast and renders the meat forbidden. Is not the same thing happening in the Temple courtyard? Do we offer forbidden meat to HaShem and give the same to the priests?”
My uncle leaned back, cleared his throat, and sent a pointed look to the priest who had brought me. The man lowered his head and stepped back.
“Who are you?” Uncle murmured, resting his cheek on his hand as he studied me. “Such a grown-up mind in such a small body.”
I answered his question the only way I could. “I am Salome Alexandra, daughter of Ittamar and Sipporah.”
Uncle smiled. “Perhaps you have a point, Shelamzion. I shall study the matter and see what can be done. We must not torture the creatures destined for sacrifice. You are right—such a thing would not please HaShem.”
I felt my heart turn over in happiness. “Truly? You will do this?”
“I will. Now run along. Do not leave the house again without an escort. And no more going to the Temple alone. Ever.”
I sighed in relief and slipped out of the room, a little a
mazed that a mere girl could say something important and have a man pay attention.
No one was more surprised than I the next time Mother, Kissa, and I went to the Temple. As we entered the courtyard, I tugged on her sleeve, about to show her the awful spectacle of men beating the sacrificial calves. To my amazement, however, the livestock area had been changed. New wooden posts stood in the open area, and small circles had been etched around the posts. One man stood with a calf within the circle. I watched as he tied the animal to the post, and then with one swift blow he stunned the animal so that it fell to its knees. The man bound it and carried it to the altar.
I turned to Kissa. “Did you see?”
The heavy lashes that usually shadowed her cheeks had flown up. “Your uncle listened.”
That was the miracle of it all. Not only had Uncle paid attention, but he had also considered my words and acted on them. A thrill shivered through me. Maybe I could make a difference. Maybe one day I could be important to creatures more appreciative than sacrificial calves.
Overcome by a heady rush of satisfaction, I clapped in delight.
“Stop daydreaming, Shelamzion.” Mother pulled me toward the steps. “We must go inside.”
Mother and I went inside, yet my thoughts wandered as the Temple musicians played. My uncle had tremendous power, and everyone knew it. I had no power of my own, but my father had set my feet on a path of knowledge, and that knowledge had spurred Uncle to act on behalf of the sacrificial animals. If I knew more, I might be able to convince Uncle to act on behalf of others . . . even girls who were not the most beautiful daughter in the family. If I could learn more, I might be able to give Kissa answers to her many questions about HaShem.
Though Alena had mentioned finding a tutor for me, no tutor had yet come to the house. I would have to find a tactful way to remind her that I wanted to learn. Perhaps after her baby came . . .
A girl might not be able to do much alone, but an educated girl who had her uncle’s ear might be able to do a great many things.
Chapter Fourteen
Shelamzion
Life in the high priest’s house changed dramatically once Alena began to have children. Judah Aristobulus was her first, born when I was eight. My happy uncle allowed me to visit the new mother, and I was amazed to see how a woman’s rounded belly could produce a fat, happy baby with pink gums and chubby fingers. Three years later, when I was eleven, Alena gave birth to her second son, Antigonus.
Uncle was not present to celebrate his second son’s birth. Bound by the terms of his treaty with Antiochus Sidetes, he had to participate in that king’s military campaign against Parthia.
The Parthians were known to be fierce, bloodthirsty warriors, with an empire so vast that not even the Romans had been able to conquer it. But Antiochus Sidetes, my uncle explained, was determined to attack the Parthians because they had captured his brother, Demetrius III.
With great reluctance, Uncle said farewell to his pregnant wife and left Jerusalem. I stood between Mother and Alena as Uncle departed the palace with his generals. Though I tried to be calm and steadfast, I was terrified he would be killed and never see his new baby.
No one was happy about my uncle’s participation in the Parthian campaign. In order to raise an army, he had to hire additional mercenaries and conscript hundreds of Jewish citizens. In addition to the hardships this venture placed on the people of Judea, spies reported that Sidetes was not prepared to undertake such a dangerous campaign. According to reports, his military procession was more suited for sight-seeing than fighting. For in addition to fighting men, it was also comprised of three hundred thousand camp followers, including cooks, bakers, and actors. Rumor had it that Sidetes’s wagons carried so much gold that common soldiers used golden nails in their leather boots, and so much silver that the cooks used silver pots for boiling water. One Judean captain told my uncle, “It is as if they are marching to a banquet rather than to a battle.”
Fortunately for the army of Judea, the Festival of Pentecost fell during the Parthian campaign. Uncle saw to it that Sidetes—who was largely ignorant of Jewish laws and practices—was informed that the Jews were not allowed to travel or fight during their religious festivals.
Like many pagans, Antiochus Sidetes was desperate to avoid offending the gods—any gods—on a military expedition. Well accustomed to studying the entrails of goats and cattle before a battle, he did not question my uncle’s devotion to HaShem or his insistence on remaining in camp to celebrate the completed harvest.
So on the sixth day of the Hebrew month of Sivan, while Sidetes and his men marched ahead, Uncle and his men remained in camp to observe Shavuot and remember the ritual taking place in the Temple. Because the Sabbath followed the festival, they remained in camp yet another day after that.
On the eighth day of Sivan, when the Seleucids had marched a good distance toward the east, Uncle and his men packed up their tents and returned to Jerusalem.
Antiochus Sidetes died, we later learned, while fighting a Parthian general. If my uncle had been with him, he would likely have been killed, too. And for what? Nothing that mattered to Judea.
I approved of my uncle’s actions and made a mental note for myself: do not waste your time or risk your life on a foolish venture.
I welcomed Uncle home with a big embrace, then took his hand and led him upstairs to meet his new son.
Though my uncle was circumspect enough not to publicly celebrate Antiochus Sidetes’s death, I knew he was relieved that the Seleucid king would not be calling on him again. Judea no longer owed tribute to Sidetes, we would never have to fight in his wars, and he would never again conspire with the Egyptians to murder Hasmoneans.
With Sidetes gone, Judea had no formal obligation to any nation save Rome—and our treaty with them was one of friendship.
To mark the occasion of Judea’s liberation, the high priest’s family, a few Levites and several merchants gathered in the palace triclinium to enjoy a lavish feast. Alena wore a new tunic, fine jewels glittered in her hair, and the necklace at her throat might have cost a king’s fortune. Even my mother dressed for the occasion, donning her best tunic and a silk himation in the Greek style. Kissa helped me choose a tunic, then braided my hair in a style that involved curls, needles, and thread.
When all the guests had assembled, my uncle stood in the center of the dining couches and blessed the bread:
Baruch atah A-donay,
Elo-heinu Melech Ha’Olam Hamotzi lechem min haaretz.
Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe,
Who brings forth bread from the earth.
He thanked HaShem for allowing Judea to be an independent and free nation again, which it had not been since the time of Solomon. “Keep Your hand upon us,” he finished, “and may Israel reflect Your glory among the nations.”
At the conclusion of his prayer, he sat and smiled around the gathering. The guests reclined on their couches and made quiet conversation as servants brought in trays of food and allowed each guest to take whatever he or she pleased.
If anyone thought it odd that a child should be present, no one mentioned it. In fact, I was nibbling daintily at a honeyed pear and feeling quite at home when I overheard one man say, “Your niece is becoming quite lovely, John. I assume you have plans for her.”
“But of course.” Uncle nodded. “And they will commence soon.”
“My other daughter”—Mother turned to the bald man who had spoken—“was the family beauty. She would outshine any girl in Jerusalem.”
Uncle showed his teeth in an expression that was not a smile, but I did not take time to analyze it. My mind had latched on to his words: he had plans for me? I leaned toward him, eager to hear more, but he only took a spiced chicken breast from a tray and tore at it with his fingers. I shifted my gaze to the bald man, hoping he would ask for clarification, but he seemed to have lost interest.
Finally I gathered my courage and spoke during a break in the conversa
tion. “What plans do you have for me, Uncle?”
My voice, high and thin, floated above the murmur of adult voices and halted the other conversations. The other guests looked at me, their faces filled with surprise.
My uncle finished swallowing his chicken and dropped the bones onto the floor. He glanced at the man who had asked about me. “Have you ever seen such boldness in such a small girl?”
As the man chuckled, Uncle turned to me. “Salome Alexandra,” he said, using my Hebrew and Greek names, “has anyone told you about Cleopatra Thea of the Ptolemies?”
I shook my head.
“That is a mistake,” Uncle said and folded his hands in his lap, “for she is a woman worthy of emulation.”
I leaned back, eager to hear more. Several guests stopped eating and listened, as well.
“Like you, Cleopatra Thea comes from an important family. She was tutored as a child, taught philosophy, history, and languages. When she was of age, her father betrothed her to Alexander Balas, the ruler of Seleucia. Jonathan of the Maccabees attended the wedding as an honored guest and sat between the groom and the bride’s father on the royal dais. He was present not only to celebrate the wedding, but also to seal a pact between the Hasmoneans and the Seleucid Empire. Balas wanted the support of our legions, so he allowed Jonathan to anoint himself as the first Hasmonean high priest. You should know that history—just as you should be willing to marry whomever your family chooses for you.”
I stared, trying to work out his meaning. “Are you—am I about to be married, Uncle?”
He laughed, his face brightening with humor. “No, little one. You are about to become educated. Tomorrow I will introduce you to your tutor.”
“Salome, I would like you to meet Josu Attis.”
The thin young man standing beside my uncle clutched a scroll to his chest and bobbed his head toward me. Then he turned to Uncle and arched his narrow brows. “I was under the impression, sir, that I would be educating one of your sons.”
