by Angela Hunt
The prince’s features hardened in a stare of disapproval. “What nonsense you speak! Of course man can decide his fate. If he wins a war, he has made himself a conqueror. If he falls on his sword, he has made himself a martyr. Only a woman would speak such foolishness.”
“If a man loses a war,” I said, lowering my voice, “he may make himself a prisoner. If he falls on his sword and the blade slips, he has only injured himself. HaShem controls the outcome of these things. As our King Solomon wrote, ‘Man may throw the dice, but HaShem decides the outcome.’”
The prince frowned again. “The name? Why do you not speak your God’s name?”
“Because His name is holy,” I answered, “and not to be invoked lightly. Do you not treat your gods with respect?”
The prince snorted through his horn of a nose and put a nesting dove to flight. “Apollo, Hephaestus, Dionysus—we have so many gods we must say their names to differentiate between them. Sometimes I think there must be as many gods as there are mortals.”
“We are not confused. Adonai is one. We are forbidden to worship any other.”
“I’ve heard that about your people. But how can one God do everything? He would have to be huge, and he would have to be everywhere at all times—”
“He is,” I replied. “‘If I go up to heaven, He is there, and if I make my bed in the grave, He is there, too. If I take the wings of the dawn and settle on the other side of the sea, even there His hand will lead me, and His right hand will lay hold of me.’”
The words of the psalm had sprung easily to my lips, and the prince’s countenance softened as I recited them. He nodded when I paused. “Go on,” he said. “They are beautiful words.”
I studied his face, afraid he was being cynical, but I saw no malice in his features. “‘His eyes saw me when I was unformed, and in His book was written the days that were formed—when not one of them had come to be.’”
“Are you saying that your God knows your thoughts? And the things you will do tomorrow or the day after?”
I nodded. “He discerns my thinking from afar. He observes my journeying and my resting, and He is familiar with all my ways.”
The prince laughed. “Then he is a foolish God, for what God would trouble himself with the affairs of a woman? Powerful gods are concerned with powerful people; the others are like ants scurrying to and fro. The gods watch mortals from on high and give their attention to kings and princes. In time you will see that it is so.”
I inclined my head in what I hoped was a respectful posture. I did not want to argue with this youth, especially since I was his guest, but neither could I be false.
“Yet you are an educated woman.” The prince leaned back on his heels and fingered the bit of dark fuzz on his upper lip. “Clearly you have a mind for learning.”
I attempted to smile. “Clearly your mother the queen has been tutored. Anyone can see that she is intelligent and well informed.”
“She is a queen.”
“But she was once a girl like me.”
“Not like you.” He shook his head. “She was a princess of the Ptolemies.”
“And I—” my voice trembled, for never had I voiced the claim aloud—“am a daughter of the Hasmoneans.”
He lifted his hand, conceding the point, and turned toward the chamber where we had left the others. “Come,” he said and extended his hand. “Let us go tell my mother that I find your company agreeable. It may be that she will make you my wife.”
Certain that my uncle would never allow such a thing, I nodded and took his hand.
Chapter Nineteen
Shelamzion
I sat next to Mother with my arms folded, my eyes on the shifting horizon outside the coach. I had not spoken since we parted from Cleopatra Thea and her son, hours and hours ago.
The wagon behind us now held more than our trunks; it also held gifts from the queen—fine gowns for Mother, a golden stylus and several richly embroidered tunics for Uncle, a trunkful of garments, and a Greek-speaking parrot for me. As we prepared to depart, the queen had ordered her servants to fill our carriage with aromatic flowers, and I was sick of their overpowering scent.
I wanted nothing to do with any of it, but I had no choice in the matter.
“I don’t understand,” I finally said, knowing my mother and uncle were already aware of my position. “I do not mean to be disrespectful, but I must ask why you agreed to this betrothal. The prince is a pagan. How can this marriage honor HaShem if my husband worships false gods?”
Mother’s satisfied look shifted immediately to surprise, and Uncle’s brows shot up to his hairline. “How can you question my authority?” he asked, his jaw tightening. “I am not only your kinsman but also your high priest.”
“Daughter!” Mother’s rebuke held a thread of warning. “After all your uncle has done for us, how can you challenge his judgment?”
I stared, taken aback by her change of attitude. Until this trip, she had never uttered a hopeful word about my future, but apparently she had come to see me in a new light.
“I am not challenging,” I said. “If you want me to marry the prince, I will obey. But I would like to know the reason behind such an unequal union.”
“Such a question demonstrates willfulness and ingratitude,” Uncle said, his face brightening to the color of a berry. “Consider this—out of all the royal women in the world, Cleopatra Thea, who hails from a long line of exalted Egyptian kings, chose you! You, who have no royal blood at all.”
I stared at him, opinionated words rising to my tongue. But neither do you! I wanted to shout. And how can you pretend otherwise?
My studies had taught me that Israel did have a divinely ordained royal line, but it sprang from David and the tribe of Judah, not Levi. Yet my uncle had behaved like a king before Cleopatra Thea. He had accepted gifts from her like a king and had discussed uniting our nations. He allowed people to bow before him, people who were not Jews and need not show any sort of obeisance to a high priest. He was the spiritual leader of Israel, but HaShem was our King. How could Uncle have done those things?
I curled my hands into fists and refused to meet his gaze. Judas Maccabaeus and his brothers had given their lives to prevent Israel from becoming like the nations around us, but here we were, behaving just like the kings and queens of pagan nations. How could that be?
Did my uncle aspire to become king of Israel?
He did not fit the qualifications laid out in the Torah, but perhaps the tribe of Judah had no suitable candidates. After all, my uncle was high priest, and though he was a cohen, a descendant of Aaron, he was not a descendant of Zadok, as all high priests had been since the time of Solomon. The line of Zadok had been replaced, my tutor had explained, but not everyone in Judea thought it appropriate for other Levites—like my uncle—to be elevated to the high and holy position of high priest.
“If you will not answer my question about the marriage,” I asked, frowning, “will you tell me why my kinsmen are high priests when they are not descended from the line of Zadok?”
Uncle folded his hands across the bulge at his midsection and studied me, his eyes narrowing. “Has your tutor been saying I should not be high priest? If he has, perhaps I should find someone else to teach you.”
I shook my head, not wanting to get Josu Attis in trouble. In truth, I had learned much from him and appreciated his honest view of the world. “I read it for myself in the writings of the prophets.”
“Then you should let a proper Torah teacher explain the situation. Reading the holy Scriptures without someone to adequately explain it could be . . . confusing.”
“I don’t find it confusing. Not often, at least. The other day I read the writings from the prophet Zechariah, who wrote that HaShem was going to send His servant, the Branch. Will He be our high priest or our king?”
Uncle glanced at Mother, then sighed and rested his elbow in the open window. “We are waiting for a king who was prophesied. One will come, a man who
will sit on the throne of His father David, but until then, how are we to function in a world of kings and queens? Someone must speak for our people. Judas Maccabaeus would not, but Jonathan did, and my father, Simon, as well, in the role of high priest. But these pagan nations do not understand what a high priest does, nor do they know HaShem. So yes, Shelamzion, I believe Israel must soon have a king.”
“Will that king be you?”
“It will be as HaShem wills. And if HaShem wills that you marry Cleopatra Thea’s son, then you shall, for the sake of your people.”
I would, but in that moment I didn’t feel at all willing. I shivered in revulsion as a spasm of disgust rose from my core.
I thought Uncle cared about me, but he had taken no thought for my feelings in the arrangement of this betrothal. I thought Uncle was proud of me, yet apparently he had given me a tutor because I would be a more valuable bride if I could converse about life outside my home. I thought Uncle loved me, and yet he was willing, even eager, to send me to a place far from my home and family.
Had I become as much a slave as Kissa?
I looked at him, wordlessly begging for some assurance of his affection. Instead he pressed his lips together and shifted in his seat to gaze out the window.
I knew he would not say anything else on the subject.
The steady creaking of the carriage, combined with the dullness of the return journey, conspired to make my eyelids heavy. I leaned against the wall of the coach and allowed my weary mind to wander in the hazy state between wakefulness and sleep.
While in this shallow doze, I heard Uncle speak to my mother. “This betrothal serves its purpose for the moment,” he said, his voice a low rumble, “but the girl is right—to actually give her to that prince would cause an uproar among our people. She is a Hasmonean, and he is a pagan.”
“But Shelamzion is not well known among the people,” Mother said. “She is not your daughter, so the news could be kept quiet. If sending her to Antioch serves a purpose for you, you should not be concerned about idle gossip. At least she will be a queen.”
“Only time will tell what purpose it might serve,” Uncle said. “Until your daughter begins to bleed, do what you can to prepare her for a life under public scrutiny. We will see what HaShem wills.”
“John . . .” Mother hesitated.
“Yes?”
“If you had a daughter, would you betroth her to a Seleucid prince?”
I peered through the quivering lashes of one eye to see my uncle’s response. He regarded Mother with a bland look, but the twitch at his right temple assured me that her question had rattled him. “If I had a daughter—” he paused and cleared his throat—“if I had a daughter, I would . . .” Trailing off, he shook his head. “Perhaps this is why HaShem has blessed me with sons only. But I would dearly love a daughter.”
He sighed heavily, a false display of regret, for anyone could see how Uncle doted on his sons. He adored little Judah Aristobulus and Antigonus, and even now Alena was expecting another child. And though I was not experienced in the ways of the world, I knew that if Alena gave birth to a daughter, that little girl might be betrothed to another of Cleopatra Thea’s sons, or a prince from some other kingdom.
In the end, I was not happy with the outcome of our trip to Antioch, but the venture opened my eyes to the width and breadth of the high priest’s work. After our audience with Cleopatra Thea, I began to understand that Uncle’s most urgent concerns lay not with the affairs of the Temple or even the administration of Judea, but with maintaining Judea’s security in the world. Though he did not possess a crown or the title of king, he acted as our political representative before kings, queens, and emperors.
I understood now why dignitaries from Egypt and Tyre and Rome came to visit him. They were not coming to worship at the Temple; they were coming to negotiate. And the gifts that arrived at the palace were not offerings to HaShem; they were enticements to sweeten the political negotiations.
How could I have missed such an obvious reality? The trip to Antioch introduced me to a realm outside Jerusalem, a sphere of nations and kingdoms to which I had given little thought. And while I did not doubt that Uncle invited us to live with him because he sincerely wanted to care for his relatives, at that moment I also understood that he had seen an opportunity in our helplessness: Mother was a Hasmonean widow with a daughter. And daughters, once properly educated, trained, and groomed, could be valuable negotiating tools.
That was why I had been betrothed to a man with a trumpet of a nose. And why I would marry him once I began to bleed . . . unless HaShem had other plans.
I could only wait and see what HaShem would do in the months ahead. Being a young woman, I had no other choice.
Chapter Twenty
Shelamzion
Kissa had just finished dressing me when we heard a shout from the palace courtyard. Hurrying to the window, we looked down and saw Alena’s handmaid running toward the well, barking orders as she went.
“Her time has come,” Kissa said, a wistful note in her voice. “All the servants will spend the day rushing to and from the mistress’s bedchamber.”
I looked at her, curious to know if Kissa yearned to be part of all the excitement, but another thought quickly shoved that notion aside—what if Alena birthed a girl? If John Hyrcanus finally had a daughter, to whom would she be promised as a bride? Betrothals sometimes took place when the girl was barely weaned, and marriages could occur as soon as the girl began to bleed.
I backed away from the window and imagined the reception hall, where Uncle was meeting with his advisors. Which kings needed placating and from whom did he need help? He might be considering the terms of his daughter’s marriage even now. Perhaps he was even contemplating marrying his daughter to my betrothed prince.
I grabbed Kissa’s arm. “Go help them,” I said, ignoring the delighted smile that splashed across her face. “The minute the child is born, come back and tell me whether it is a boy or a girl.”
She took a step toward the door, then turned back. “Are you sure you don’t need me for anything?”
“I am going to practice my reading.” When she hesitated, I lifted my arms and shooed her away. “Go! But don’t forget—I need to know as soon as possible.”
She left, and I picked up a scroll and tried to read the text. My Greek had greatly improved, though I could not keep my thoughts focused on the handwritten words.
Fortunately, at that moment Josu Attis came through the doorway. “It is good to see you reading,” he said and greeted me with a respectful bow. “Your mother tells me you have been promised to a prince.”
I lowered the scroll and made a face. “Forgive me if I am not exactly thrilled by the idea. The most impressive thing about Prince Grypus is his nose.”
A smile flickered across the tutor’s face. He pointed to the scroll. “What is that? Something useful, I hope.”
“Plato.” I lifted the scroll again. “I am trying to concentrate, but the house is filled with excitement today. My uncle’s wife is giving birth to her third child.”
“That explains why the doorkeeper was distracted.” Josu sat on a stool and folded his arms. “What is Plato teaching you?”
“He says there are three kinds of people in any society, because people are tripartite. What does that mean?”
“Comprised of three parts. Plato believes humans are appetite, spirit, and reason. But I am not certain HaShem would agree. The Torah tells us that man is body and soul.”
I considered his answer, then shrugged. “In any case, Plato says there are three types of people in a society—those who produce, like slaves, carpenters, masons, and farmers; those who protect, like soldiers; and those who govern. He says the producers align with the appetite of man, the protectors with the spirit of man, and those who govern with the reason of man.”
Josu lifted a brow. “But is that absolute? Does not a farmer protect his crop? Does he not have a spirit? And does a mother, who produce
s children and food for her table, not protect and govern her children? I am not certain, Salome, that men can be so easily divided into categories.”
“And what about women?” I tilted my head. “Where do women fit into all this?”
A smile flashed in his brown beard. “If only you could ask Plato. I would like to hear his answer.”
A cry rang from the courtyard, and I hurried to the window. My uncle stood outside, both arms raised, his face turned toward heaven. “May HaShem be praised!” he shouted for the world to hear. “I have another son!”
Something inside me—I know not what—shriveled at his display of joy. What sort of announcement would he have made if Alena had delivered a girl?
I turned back to my tutor. “Another son for Uncle. That makes three.”
Josu nodded. “The high priest is blessed indeed. May God bless his sons as he blessed the five courageous sons of Mattathias.”
“I do not think,” I said, settling onto a stool, “the five sons of Mattathias would have betrothed me to a pagan prince.”
Josu made a face but held his tongue as I wearily considered Plato’s treatise on the three types of men.
Chapter Twenty-One
Kissa
From the courtyard I glanced up and saw Shelamzion’s face at her window. So she had heard the news. Another son for John Hyrcanus.
I would not go upstairs to tell her, for I had seen Josu Attis enter the house. Shelamzion was studying, which would distract her from her preoccupation with betrothals and marriages. Later, if she felt agreeable, she might share what she had learned or let me read one of her scrolls.
I stopped in the courtyard and looked around, searching for some task I could perform while I waited for the tutor to leave. The master did not like to see idle slaves, and neither did his foreman. I could always fill water jars and leave them by the back door. Or I could fetch a few honey cakes from the kitchen and set them on Shelamzion’s bedside table. She always said that reading worked up an appetite.
