The Barbarian (The Herod Chronicles Book 2)

by Wanda Ann Thomas

  An agonizing moment of silence passed, then Uncle patted her hand. "Your cousins would cry their eyes out if I sent you away. We can't have that, now can we?"

  Lydia stared blindly down the long hallway. "Of course not, Uncle."

  ***

  The next afternoon a loud knock sounded on the bedchamber door and Brynhild rushed in and hurried to Lydia's side. Lydia rubbed her eyes and set down the yellow linen scarf she was trimming with ivory stitches.

  "Master Jacob dropped dead at the synagogue," Bryn wheezed. "Come quickly. Your aunt and the girls need your support."

  Heart hammering, Lydia jumped to her feet. "Uncle is dead?"

  Brynhild led the way out of the room. "Master Jacob's friends carried him home and laid him out in his bedchamber. Your aunt is beside herself. I coaxed her and the girls out of the room so the body could be prepared for burial."

  Lydia rubbed her stiff fingers, trying to warm them. Poor Aunt. She and Uncle had been married twenty-five years. Twenty-five years. Two years longer than Lydia had been alive. Six years of marriage to Uncle had been too long for her. Thank heaven, thank heaven, thank heaven, the burdensome marriage was over.

  She winced. Listen to her. Could she sound more wicked or selfish? Where was her grief? And her compassion for Aunt and the girls? Her cheerful uncle... er... husband had been a gentle soul who would never dream of harming anyone. A respected man among his peers, he would be greatly missed.

  Sobs spilled out of the family’s combined dining chamber and reception hall.

  Lydia hurried forward. Her cousins cried louder when she entered the room. The two youngest ran to her and buried their sweet faces in her skirt. Lydia's heart broke for them. She knelt and put her arms around them. "There, there," she cooed. Then she turned to Aunt. "Please accept my sorrow for your terrible loss."

  "I don't want you here." Aunt Sarah snapped back. "Leave us."

  Lydia didn't take the sharp words to heart. Aunt was terribly upset. Patting her cousins' small backs, Lydia stood. "What can I do to help?"

  Aunt's watery eyes iced over. "I want you out of this house."

  Lydia nodded. The request didn't come as a surprise—Aunt Sarah had never wanted her here—but it hurt nonetheless. "Of course. I will write to my father after we sit Shiva for Uncle and make arrangements to return to Jerusalem."

  She was going back to her childhood home. The idea threatened to set Lydia's head spinning, an indulgence she couldn't afford, since the house would soon be overrun with mourners. A roomful of tasks awaited someone's attention. "Do you want me to speak to the rulers of the synagogue about Uncle's burial?"

  "He was my husband," Aunt said, her voice rising. "The burial is my duty."

  "I'm sorry. I only meant to help. I didn't mean to upset you."

  Aunt Sarah pointed at the front door. "Go! I want you out of my house now!"

  Lydia froze.

  The girls began to weep again, clinging to her. Aunt's face crumpled. "Please leave."

  Lydia turned and fled. Tears of regret and grief burned in her eyes.

  Brynhild caught up to her. "What are you going to do, girl? Where will you go?"

  The question stopped Lydia in her tracks. "I will—" Dear heavens above, what would she do after she stepped out the door of this house?

  CHAPTER 5

  Idumea - One Month Later

  Kadar retreated to a corner of the walled courtyard to escape the loud gaiety and press of richly attired guests arriving for the formal banquet hosted by the Governor of Judea, Antipater of Idumea.

  Starlight glimmered through the oval leaves of the orange tree overhead. The sweet fragrance of oranges swirled around him. He'd never smelled the like before coming to this part of the world, or tasted anything as delectable and delicious as the tangy, juicy fruit the trees produced. Oranges had once been a favorite of his. But not now. Not since Sabu Nakht.

  A middle-aged couple cast nervous glances his way. Kadar plucked a leaf and dug his nail into the waxy surface. Where was Herod?

  As if summoned, Antipater's youngest son strolled across the courtyard, his black, curly hair damp from a recent bath. Herod's swagger drew a mix of frowns, smiles, and admiration. The mercurial Governor of Galilee, Herod appeared to be as brash and bold as ever.

  Kadar rubbed his weary eyes and stepped out from under the tree’s shelter. "Did you speak to your father? He said you'd know the current whereabouts of Simeon Onias."

  "What a way to greet an old friend," Herod said, smiling.

  Revenge uppermost in his mind, Kadar had little patience for social niceties. "Do you know where Onias is or not?"

  Herod slapped Kadar on the shoulder. "I nearly fell off my horse when Father told me you turned up...what was it...three days ago? I had to see your ugly face for myself. We thought you were long dead. My father sent men to Egypt after we didn't hear anything from you for a month, but it was like you had vanished." Herod's eyes swept over him. "You were a slave? Jupiter, you must have hated it. What happened?"

  "I was careless."

  "You look strong. Not many men walk away from those salt mines alive." Herod's brows rose questioningly.

  Kadar didn't bother to correct Herod—salt mine, copper mine—neither was exactly a pleasure cruise on the Nile. And the damnable man would have to remain curious. Kadar would rather be castrated than be forced to confess one word of his shameful behavior after Sabu Nakht finally found a way to break him. Kadar gritted his teeth. "The head overseer set me free."

  Herod blinked repeatedly. "He set you free? The fool could have made a small fortune selling you."

  "The overseer called it a reward for my faithful service." The truth was Nakht couldn't find anyone to challenge Kadar, after dozens and dozens of contenders had tried and failed. Kadar could still see the overseer's oily grin as he handed over the manumissio, the official document given to a freed slave. The stench of Nakht's foul breath lingered from the kisses he planted on Kadar's cheeks before sending him off with a westbound caravan. "I returned in the middle of the night and killed the cretin," Kadar said flatly, his hand going to the silver amulet he had torn from Nakht's broken neck.

  Herod laughed and shook his head. "Can I convince you to be my bodyguard? You would scare my enemies witless."

  The last time Kadar had seen Herod, the hotheaded man was cooling his heels in Syria after marching an army on Jerusalem. "Your father told me you managed to earn the good opinion of the Jews."

  "I can’t understand why everyone made such a big fuss over one small army."

  "You threatened to annihilate the Sanhedrin."

  He shrugged. Although only about thirty years old, Herod had confidence and conceit to spare. "A few months after you disappeared, Hasmond did me the great favor of gathering an army and invading Galilee. He managed to capture three fortresses before I struck back and drove him out of the country. Jerusalem greeted me with a hero's welcome when I returned. The city had a parade in my honor."

  "With your luck, you don't need my help anyway."

  "My father is disappointed you refused to join his bodyguards. You might reconsider after you hear what I learned today."

  Kadar shifted restlessly. "Can you tell me where Simeon Onias is hiding, or not?"

  "I figured Onias was involved in your disappearance. The old prude denied it, of course." Herod checked over his shoulders and lowered his voice. "My spies tell me Onias journeyed to Parthia. He is a guest of Hasmond. The two devils probably have their heads together, even as we speak, conspiring against my father and John Hycranus."

  The struggle for power between John Hycranus and Hasmond had been going on for twenty-plus years. Kadar didn't think either man was worth the effort. Simeon Onias joining with Hasmond was an inconvenience. It meant a journey far to the east. Then again, Parthia was probably as good a place to go as any.

  "I'll set out for Parthia tomorrow. You and your father will have one less thing to worry about once I kill Onias."

  Herod's
bark of laughter drew curious glances.

  Kadar frowned.

  Herod's lively black eyes sparkled. "Remind me never to cross you."

  Kadar searched for the closest escape route. "I don't have time for your nonsense." The archway leading to the interior of the house was crowded with guests and slaves. It would have to do. A hand circled his arm. He narrowed his eyes at Herod.

  No fool, Herod released his hold and stepped back. "There's a thing or two you might want to know before charging off to Parthia."

  Kadar blew out sharp breath. "Talk. And make it quick."

  "Lydia Onias is a widow."

  Kadar clutched his chest, feeling as if a hand had reached in and grabbed his heart. "A widow? What happened?"

  "Her husband died," Herod said, flashing boxy white teeth.

  "You don't want to see the murderous side of me."

  Herod sobered. "I passed through Jerusalem this morning. The city was all abuzz over Lydia Onias's arrival. They say her husband was dead before he—"

  "Hold on. Slow down. Lydia Onias is in Jerusalem?" Kadar said.

  Herod nodded, then waggled his brows. "She's still in your blood, isn't she?"

  Kadar paced in a circle, his body humming with the urge to race to Jerusalem. But then what? Would Lydia want to see him? She'd probably long since forgotten him. He needed to let go of the past. Let her go.

  "Will you try to see her?" Herod asked.

  Kadar scrubbed a hand over his face. "I don't know. I... ah—" Damnation. Who was he trying to fool? A legion of angels couldn't keep him away from Lydia Onias.

  ***

  James Onias smoothed the folds of his costly robe and entered the noisy dining chamber. A dozen low, wooden tables ringed by gold-tasseled cushions filled the room. Slaves moved about the room serving food and drink.

  He'd visited Antipater's country home a few times. Idumea was an armpit of a place, if you asked him, but he wasn't in a position to say no to this invitation. Estranged from his selfish father at age fourteen, he'd been a member of Antipater's household for over six years now. The Idumean was a man worth pleasing. A wealthy military commander and a friend of Rome and blessed with a surfeit of guile, Antipater had used his influence to gain the office of governor of Judea, making him the second most powerful man in the land.

  James took a deep breath, plastered a smile on his face, and realized he was doing it again—stroking his knuckle over the scar running across his cheek. Fickle Fortuna! The jagged purple blemish drew notice enough without him pointing it out.

  He pressed his hands to his sides, marched to his seat, and dropped down next to Antipater's oldest son, Phasael.

  A slave came right over and poured wine into a silver cup incised with a band of grape leaves. James tapped the rim. "Fill it to the top." He glanced over at the head table. John Hycranus was busy loading his plate with choice cuts from the fatted calf. The High Priest of Israel didn't appear to have noticed James. Thank the seven heavens!

  James lifted his cup and sipped. Mmm...the finest wine this side of the Mediterranean. Antipater wasn't sparing any expense to celebrate his son's engagement to John Hycranus's lovely granddaughter. Herod and Mariamne? James shook his head. He wasn't the only one who found the idea incredible. It was all anyone could talk about.

  A large hand clapped James on the back. Wine sloshed over his hand and dotted his brown tunic. James gave Phasael a sour frown.

  Dark-complexioned like his Nabatean mother, Phasael's white teeth gleamed as he laughed. "What do you think of the place? My father is proud as a peacock about the renovations."

  James's practiced eye winced at the garish, faux Doric columns, bulky plaster rosettes, and over bright murals layered over the skeleton of a once-humble farmhouse. He'd spent the last four years in Rome studying construction and design under the tutelage of the world's elite master builders, so he knew good work when he saw it. This wasn’t good work, not by any stretch of the imagination.

  He picked up his spoon and pointed toward the oasis painted on the wall behind the head table, which featured bloated palm trees swaying like drunkards around a mud puddle. "The artisan responsible for that eyesore ought to be trussed up, coated in honey, and dropped into a camel pen."

  Phasael grinned. "My mother adores it."

  "Ah...I begin to see its charm."

  "You are a clever one."

  James shrugged. "I've seen worse." Attempts to emulate the splendors of Rome ran rampant among those granted Roman citizenship, placing the governor of Judea amid good company.

  Phasael swiped a chunk of rye bread through an oil and herb concoction. "My father says your tutors couldn't stop boasting about your uncommon talent. He and Herod want to put you to work rebuilding some key outposts."

  James still marveled at the drastic turn his life had taken these past six years. Left with a nasty scar on his cheek, thanks to his father's overzealous quest to become High Priest of Israel, James had walked out of his father's house six years earlier, never to return. Jerusalem's gossips had feasted on the scandal for weeks, squawking like elated buzzards when they learned James had gone to live and work in a community of stonecutters.

  But for the first time in his life he’d felt whole and alive. He'd relished the burn in his arms when he swung a hammer, took great satisfaction in the sweat pouring off him while he helped slide a block into place, spent hours in fascinating discussions about the art and craft of building. The stone dust had soaked into his pores, mingled with his breath, seeped into his marrow, until he burned with the drive to fashion the finest palace-fortresses the world had ever seen.

  James held back the smile he knew might make him appear overeager. "Your father has been most generous with me." Antipater had plucked James out of the community of stonecutters, paid for his education, supported him while he studied in Rome, and was poised to hire James as a master builder.

  Phasael stuffed a piece of bread into his mouth. "My mother is clamoring for a big new home in Jerusalem. She wants Father to bring in one of those acclaimed master builders from Alexandria."

  James sat up straighter. "Will your mother get her way?"

  "What do you think?"

  "Wise men keep their wives happy."

  "Why, you silver-tongued flatterer. And here I thought you went to Rome to learn how to stack stones."

  "I learned many lessons in Rome," James said through gritted teeth. He'd spent time with oxen more clever than this grinning fool.

  Phasael lifted a brow. "We heard you grew quite fond of the wine and slave girls."

  "Heard?" James's face heated, and rightly so, given the liberties he'd taken while living in Rome. "Heard from who?"

  "Our spies."

  "Spies?"

  Phasael's bark of laughter ricocheted around the room. "You should see your face. We weren't spying on you. Not officially. The information we received was more in the way of gossip. One agent found your misadventures quite entertaining."

  "Go hang yourself, you Cretin bast—" The insult stuck in James's throat. High Priest Hycranus and a handful of Temple officers were staring at him.

  Hycranus wagged his pudgy finger. "Why haven't I seen you at the Temple?"

  James's chin firmed. "I have other matters to attend to."

  The answer earned perplexed frowns from Hycranus and the Temple officers. James was a priest by birth, a descendant of Aaron, the first priest of Israel. A priest eschewing the Temple was the equivalent of a farmer refusing to enter his fields.

  The mingle of voices and clink and clatter of dishware became quieter and quieter. Heads turned. He saw the pitying looks. Heard the whispers, "The poor boy with the scar."

  James's fists balled. It was how he was known from one end of Israel to the other, thanks to his wonderful, caring father. Six years ago, Simeon Onias had dragged his children into the wilds of Galilee so he could conspire with a band of deranged bandits. The meeting had gone terribly wrong. One of James's sisters had been abducted and ravaged
by the lead madman, and the other sister had been forced to slice James's cheek with a knife. He still had nightmares of the gleaming, sharp blade hovering over his nose. The disfigurement had rendered James unfit to offer sacrifices at the Lord God's altar. The Law stipulated both animal and priest must be without spot or blemish. James had been rendered a damnable freak, listed in Moses' Law beside dwarfs, hunchbacks, and eunuchs.

  Though he hated the idea, James would return to the Temple. He owed it to his sisters. Alexandria and Lydia had suffered enough, thanks to his cowardice. He didn't want to tarnish them with his shame.

  Hycranus sighed. "You young priests try my patience."

  "Leave the boy alone," a firm voice commanded. All eyes went to Herod. The formidable man picked up his goblet and stood. "We are here to celebrate my engagement." He smiled down at Mariamne. "Everyone join me in toasting my lovely espoused wife."

  Cups were lifted high, and happy cheers echoed through the rooms. More salutations followed, after which the guests returned to eating and chatting.

  James exhaled a relieved breath.

  Phasael chuckled. "He's actually lovesick. Can you believe it?"

  James uncurled and flexed his fingers. "Who?"

  "Herod."

  James glanced over at Herod and Mariamne. The newly-engaged pair were whispering into each other's ears and exchanging ardent looks.

  Mariamne was a true beauty, with royal blood. No wonder Herod had divorced Doris and banished her and his five-year-old son to a small, bleak outpost overlooking the Dead Sea. A dull-minded girl with a flirtatious smile and large breasts, Doris never had a chance of holding Herod's interest.

  Herod and Mariamne's engagement, however, was still a wallop of a surprise. John Hycranus had no business marrying his granddaughter off to a man who was a Jew in name only. Herod's father was Idumean. His mother a Nabatean princess from Petra. All of Jerusalem was outraged over the engagement.

  "I see the disgust in your eyes," Phasael said. The burly man's eyes hardened.