Jerusalem's Queen--A Novel of Salome Alexandra

by Angela Hunt

  “My eldest is only four and not quite ready for a tutor,” Uncle replied, chuckling. “But Shelamzion was born ready for learning. You will find her a bright and willing pupil.”

  “But . . .” The tutor faltered, a melancholy frown flitting across his features. “She is a girl, sir.”

  Uncle smiled at me. “Clearly.”

  “I am not equipped to teach cooking and sewing and how to drape a himation.”

  Annoyance struggled with humor in Uncle’s expression as he turned to face the tutor. “Her mother will teach her those things. I want you to teach her about history, philosophy, and ethics. I am certain you will find her quite receptive.”

  Feeling awkward, I stepped closer to Uncle and lowered my voice. “Will he teach me Torah?”

  Uncle bent to my level. “We have to be very careful about who teaches Torah,” he whispered. “This Josu Attis is very bright, but I have not yet found the proper Torah teacher for you.”

  When Uncle straightened, the young man extended his arm toward a small space off the central hallway. “The high priest has said we may study in here, so long as the door remains open. Will you join me?”

  I bobbed my head in a quick nod and hurried into the room.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Kissa

  My mistress came bounding up the stairs, her face alight. “He was wonderful,” she said, the words flowing on a tide of enthusiasm. “He brought a stylus and leather, and taught me how to write my name in Hebrew letters. And then he demonstrated Greek letters and said I would learn how to read and write both.”

  I gave her a tentative smile. “That is good, mistress.”

  “Tomorrow he will bring a scroll for me to keep as my own. He says it is simple writing, and soon I ought to be able to read it myself. Won’t that be wonderful? Soon I will be able to write letters and lists and—oh! I might even write a book!”

  I lifted the stack of himations I had folded and put them in a trunk. “Very good, miss. I am happy for you.”

  Shelamzion sat on the bed and peered at me. “You do not look happy.”

  “I am.”

  “No, you are not. What is wrong?”

  I closed the trunk and blew out a breath. How could I verbalize my feelings? How could I explain that lately I had been depressed by the realization that I would never live anywhere but by her side, I would never meet anyone unless she allowed it, and I would never know anything unless I learned it from her?

  “You are going to learn,” I began, “and that is good. People will expect the ward of the high priest to know things.”

  “Why does that displease you?”

  “It does not displease me. But . . . being a slave does not mean I don’t want to learn. I would love to know how to read and write. I would love to know more about many things.”

  Shelamzion sucked at the inside of her cheek, her brows twitching like a pair of inchworms. “Why do you want to know how to read? You have no scrolls.”

  For a bright girl, my mistress could be surprisingly blind. The world in which I had found myself was one of letters—people sent messages, read scrolls, studied manuscripts, and wrote receipts. If I was ever going to find my parents in Egypt, I would need to know how to read and write. If I was ever going to be more than my mistress’s hands and feet, I would need knowledge.

  “I could read to you,” I continued to explain, sitting on the edge of the trunk, “if perhaps you were too tired to hold a scroll. I could write letters for you, if you needed a scribe. Don’t you see—I could be a much better servant for you if I knew how to read and write.”

  Shelamzion nodded slowly. “But how are you to learn? My uncle would not want you to be in the room with me and the tutor.” She crossed her arms. “And the tutor might think it odd if my handmaid was present during my lesson.”

  “Then you could teach me,” I said. “When you come back from your study time, you could share what you learned. If that pleases you, of course.”

  “That might work. But you could not fall behind on your duties. The laundry, the cleaning—you would still have to do your regular work. Mother would be upset if you fell behind.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  “Then it’s settled.” Shelamzion’s face brightened. “Make sure your work is finished by the time I leave Josu Attis. I will come here then and share what I have learned—most of it, anyway.”

  I smiled. “Thank you, miss. I promise I will be a good student.”

  “You had better.” She lowered her brows in a stern expression. “Or I will have to punish you severely.”

  For an instant I felt a twinge of fear, but then Shelamzion released a peal of laughter. I laughed too, though the moment had been extremely uncomfortable.

  In the six years we had been together, my young mistress had learned one lesson without being formally taught—how to maintain the dignified distance between master and slave. The young, innocent girl had grown into a sophisticated little lady. She still talked freely with me at night, and she still allowed me to sleep beside her bed, but in public she rarely spoke to me. By observing the high priest, his wife, and other important people, she had quietly absorbed all she needed to know about the relationship between slaves and masters.

  So I was not surprised when she hesitated at my question. Masters were supposed to be educated, but slaves definitely did not have tutors. But as long as Shelamzion could control what, when, and how much I learned, she would be content to teach me.

  I understood, for I too had been learning.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Shelamzion

  Time passed, months in which I studied and learned and left my childhood behind. As I developed a woman’s sensibilities, I began to see the world around me through different eyes.

  Mother, I saw clearly, would never stop grieving for her firstborn daughter. She still mentioned Ketura at least once a day, usually after someone had said something to compliment me.

  “Don’t take it to heart,” Kissa told me one afternoon as we sat on the floor outside my bedchamber. “She placed all her dreams on that girl, and when she lost your sister, she lost everything.”

  “But she still has me,” I whispered. We were watching Mother through the stone railings on the balcony. “She has me and this house and a fine life in Jerusalem.”

  Kissa shook her head. “Some people can never escape their grief. They are like bugs caught in a spider’s web. They cannot seem to free themselves, no matter what.”

  I watched Mother move to the window, where she stared out at the courtyard and sighed heavily. “I don’t think she wants to be free.”

  In that moment I determined that I would never become stuck in my circumstances. No web would paralyze me with inertia, and no sorrow would break my heart beyond repair. Mother had given all her love to Ketura, so I would not love anyone but HaShem with my whole heart.

  During my thirteenth year, Alena and I were walking through the garden when she told me I had become a beautiful girl. I was so startled I almost pressed my fingers across her lips. I didn’t want to hear false words, especially from her.

  She must have seen something in my face, because she caught my wrist and held it tight. “Do not listen,” she said, her tone fierce, “to what your mother says. She cannot see the beauty in you because she has given all her love to her dead daughter. But you are attractive, Shelamzion, and you need only to look at yourself to know it.”

  That afternoon I sat at my dressing table as Kissa arranged my hair for dinner. The face reflected in the looking brass was not that of a raving beauty. Even at my uninformed age, I saw that my nose was too long and my front teeth too big. But when Kissa let a few curls dangle in front of my ears, my nose did not seem so long. And who did not look a hundred times better with a smile?

  Perhaps Alena was right. With a few cosmetics and a suitable gown, I might be presentable. But even if I were not, I would be what my father and Uncle wanted me to be—knowledgeable, clever, and wise.r />
  As Kissa finished her work, I casually mentioned what Alena had told me in the garden. Kissa grinned and put her box of hairpins away. “Watch out,” she said, “as she may be considering you for a daughter-in-law. She has two sons, and those sons will need brides one day.”

  “Marry one of the babies?” I glimpsed my reflection—my face had gone idiotic with surprise.

  Kissa nodded. “Important families frequently marry their cousins. It keeps the bloodline pure. And the age difference is not so great. You are, what, eight years older than Judah Aristobulus?”

  I burst into laughter. “Surely you cannot be serious. He is five.”

  “When he is fifteen, you will be twenty-three,” Kissa said. “You will be more mature . . . and perhaps you will be able to teach him a few things.”

  I whooped with laughter, rocking back and forth at the thought of being married to the little boy whose greatest delight in the world was chasing lizards in the courtyard. “The very idea!” I said.

  Kissa stepped back and sighed. “All right, forget what I said. But one day you may find your cousin more handsome than you imagined possible. Look at his parents—they are both handsome people.”

  I sat up as my mirth died away. Kissa had a point—Alena was certainly beautiful, and Uncle was handsome, in his way. But Judah Aristobulus! Really!

  “Do me a favor,” I said, making a face as I wiped tears from my eyes. “Do not ever mention that idea to anyone outside this chamber. I would not want Uncle to think I was pining for the love of his little ones.”

  “Do not worry,” Kissa said, her voice dry. “I will never mention it again.”

  In the summer of my thirteenth year, Uncle stopped me as I came out of a meeting with Josu Attis and told me to prepare for a journey. He and my mother would be taking me to Antioch, where we would meet with Cleopatra Thea, the Seleucid queen I had heard so much about. I would also meet her fourteen-year-old son, Antiochus VIII.

  The thought of a distant journey thrilled me, and with great enthusiasm I ran back to the house to share the news with Kissa. Yet she did not share my eagerness, and when I asked why, she only shrugged. “The last long journey I took was not pleasant. I have not forgotten it.”

  “This will be nothing like the slave caravan,” I assured her. “You will travel with me, and you will never leave my side. And we will visit a queen! You will stay in a palace, not a slave market. Surely it will help you forget that other journey.”

  She moved toward my trunk, then turned and lifted a brow. “Your uncle said this queen has a son?”

  “A youth my age,” I said, my cheeks heating as I smiled. “Well, almost. He is fourteen.”

  Kissa blew out a long breath and sank to a bench by the bed. “Do you not see what the high priest is planning? The boy is fourteen; you are thirteen. He is a queen’s son; you are the ward of Israel’s ruler. I believe your uncle is planning a betrothal.”

  For a moment I could only stare at her. Only when I released a long exhalation did I realize I’d been holding my breath. “He wants me to be married?”

  “Why else would he take you to meet a queen’s son? If he wanted you to have a male friend, he could introduce you to the butcher’s boy.”

  “But . . .” My protestations died on my lips. Uncle had always said he had plans for me, but he had never given me any idea what those plans might be . . . until now. Even a girl like me could understand that if he united the Hasmoneans with the royal family of Cleopatra Thea, he would benefit from the political and social advantages that came with the Seleucids and the Egyptians.

  I sat on the opposite end of the bench as my heart began to pound against my breastbone. “Do you . . . do you think he would want me to marry the prince right away?”

  Kissa lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I know nothing about kings and queens, especially those in other lands.”

  “Married.” I whispered the word, then gripped Kissa’s hand. “If I am married to this prince, I must have you with me. I will not go anywhere without you, do you understand?”

  For an instant, fear darted into Kissa’s eyes. “Has your uncle not said that I belonged to you? Is it possible he would change his mind?”

  “I do not think so.” I swallowed. “No, he would not—he has no reason to change his mind about you.”

  Her fearful expression softened as she placed her free hand over mine. “Then I will go with you,” she promised, speaking in an odd yet gentle tone. “And not only because I am your slave. I will go because you are my friend.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kissa

  My young mistress walked thoughtfully away, leaving me alone in her bedchamber. I tidied up the scrolls and parchments she had brought with her, then sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the floor.

  A trip to Antioch . . . a betrothal . . . a nightmare.

  By all the gods, my mistress was naïve! She spoke of the upcoming trip as though it would be some sort of merry party, but she had never traveled such a long distance before. She said she would keep me by her side, yet how could she guarantee such a promise? Slaves did not travel with their owners. They either walked or were chained into wagons. Sometimes they had to carry water jugs or guide the donkeys loaded with food and water.

  And when the caravan stopped at night, Shelamzion would sleep in a tent with her mother while I would be left to find a safe spot beneath a wagon or a palm tree. I would be vulnerable to every slave, merchant, and passing stranger who saw me. I would have to fend off the advances of strange men or die in an attempt to defend myself.

  But Shelamzion would not think about these things. Neither would she consider the changes we would both face if she married the son of a Seleucid queen.

  If she married this foreign prince, she might realize that she was as much a slave as I. We would move to Seleucia. We would live in a different palace, we would have new masters, we would eat new foods and have to accustom ourselves to new rules, ranks, and rituals. Everything Shelamzion knew would change, even the worship of her God. The foreign queen might let her continue to worship HaShem, but if Shelamzion made a mistake or angered one of her new relatives, that freedom could disappear. If Shelamzion refused to obey, she could be killed . . . and then what would happen to me? I would become one of hundreds of slaves in another foreign land.

  I lowered my head into my hands. I had not lived long, but I had traveled from one world to another, and I had been forcibly taken to a place where everything was different. I had been beaten and violated, and though the gods smiled on me when they brought me to Shelamzion, no slave was ever truly secure.

  My time in Judea had been bearable because Shelamzion was kind and not so very different from me. She saw herself as the pampered, fortunate niece of a great man, and to some extent she was right to think of herself that way. But her sheltered childhood was about to end, and once she was betrothed, she would realize just how much of a slave she was. Shelamzion might be called a bride, but she would be chained to whatever circumstances her uncle decreed for her.

  My mistress was simply too young to understand the risks of such a venture, and these were not the sort of issues her tutor would address. These were things she would learn from experience, and for the first time I found myself wishing that Shelamzion could remain ignorant for a long time to come.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Shelamzion

  Uncle insisted that we ride in his new conveyance on the journey to Antioch—a wooden box on wheels with a curved roof and openings at the front and side to let in the air.

  “Is that a chariot?” Mother asked.

  “It is called a coach,” he answered. “I saw a picture of a Roman coach and had my carpenter duplicate it.” He watched as the slaves loaded our trunks into a wagon. “Traveling by coach appears to be quite comfortable; its walls will shelter us from the sun.”

  “And also the dust,” Mother added, stepping onto a stool a slave provided for her. After another step she was through the d
oorway and sitting on a pillow inside the vehicle.

  I approached the stool, then remembered my promise to Kissa. Since Mother would never allow a slave inside the conveyance, I made certain she could ride with the driver. “Under no circumstances,” I told the man, “should my handmaid be forced to walk.”

  I entered the coach and sat next to Mother. Uncle followed and sat across from us.

  As we departed, Uncle told me more about the queen I would soon meet. “Cleopatra Thea is a remarkable woman,” he began, taking in the passing landscape through the open window. “Twenty years before you were born, she was married to Alexander Balas. Then Demetrius, the fourteen-year-old son of Seleucia’s previous king, launched an uprising and seized the throne. Cleopatra Thea’s father annulled his daughter’s marriage to Balas and gave her to Demetrius, and then he set out to kill her first husband. Both Balas and Philometor died in the ensuing struggle.”

  I tried to disguise my horror at the mention of uprisings and deaths. Was this the sort of life Uncle wished for me? I cast about for something to say—something that would not offend him—and settled for, “She had to marry a youth of fourteen?”

  Uncle nodded. “But her new husband was foolish, and the people despised him. He made a treaty with your great-uncle Jonathan, but then betrayed us. Around the same time, Cleopatra Thea birthed a son, which gave the people hope that one day they would live in peace and safety. Unfortunately, a general called Diodotus stole the child from its nurse and proclaimed him king.”

  “A baby king!” The words escaped my lips before I could stop them.

  Uncle gave me a tolerant smile. “The child became a boy soon enough, though he only served as a puppet for Diodotus. Your great-uncle Jonathan championed the cause of the young king, and for a while Diodotus gave Judea great honors. But Jonathan’s military success intimidated him, so he kidnapped Jonathan and demanded a ransom. My father, Simon, tried to gather enough wealth to ransom our kinsman, but Diodotus murdered Jonathan before my father could pay it.”