A.D. 30

by Ted Dekker

  She laughed at this, then looked at me, curious.

  “I see a fear in you, Queen. What is it?”

  My mind spun, searching for an answer. “I care deeply for my slaves,” I said. “I cannot stomach the thought of any harm coming to them.”

  At this she lit up. “So, then… you have taken one of them into your bed?”

  “No. By Isis, no.”

  “But you love one. Tell me which. The black one, perhaps. He is a magnificent beast, that one, apt to rip the head off his prey with his hands rather than use the sword.”

  “No! It’s not that way.”

  “Then the one with kind eyes. He’s as strong as the beast, but a lover! I can see it in his hands and his face.”

  “A lover does not concern me.”

  “And yet you found one. This is the prerogative of queens, my dear. I see you have much to learn.”

  She wasn’t wrong, but neither did she know that I was a queen in Judah’s eyes alone. And this thought gave me pause, for in Judah’s eyes I might indeed have such a prerogative.

  “Then it is also my privilege to refuse your husband,” I said.

  “Herod?” She released my arm and smiled. “So you see that Herod is more in the line of kings like the ancient Solomon than his father. Have you read Solomon’s songs?”

  “I don’t think so, no.”

  “Scandalous. Sometimes I think my husband was born a thousand years too late. He was educated in Rome, you know, where men are known to die for women. They are called romantics by some.”

  It was heard of, but not so common, I thought. Mark Antony and Cleopatra came to mind. Clearly, however, Herod and Phasa were not of typical stock either. I found their forthrightness unnerving.

  “He would be a fool to force himself upon you. If he tries, scratch his eyes out. Or put a knife in his belly, that will teach him a lesson.”

  She laughed, but I didn’t believe she could mean such words. Still, they gave me courage because I had no intention of allowing the king to touch me.

  “Don’t you worry, my dear,” she said. “My husband is bound for Rome tomorrow on urgent business. I’m sure he’ll set your lover free before he leaves. And the beast for me, if he will have it. What is his name?”

  “Rome? Tomorrow?”

  “Yes. What did you say his name was?”

  I knew then why Phasa seemed so overjoyed—she was soon to be free of her husband’s presence. I had to leave for Rome with Herod.

  And, with me, Judah. A voyage to Rome and back would take many weeks. The thought of being parted from Judah for so long filled me with dread.

  “His name is Saba,” I said. “He would likely tear your eyes out.”

  Phasa laughed once more. “Then I must tame him.”

  She led me to a drawn bath that might fit four, the tub of white marble, the water steaming and milky. I had taken a hot bath only three times before, and my memory of the experience drew me like a moth to a flame.

  “You’re pleased?” Phasa said.

  “It appears inviting.”

  “Inviting? It is heaven on earth, my dear! I can see you have much to learn from me. I’ve heard that there is a mystic or a madman—no one seems to knows which—who tells the Jews that the kingdom of heaven is among us already, and I know he speaks the truth. I swim in it every day.”

  “A mystic? By what name?”

  Phasa regarded me with brightened eyes. “Yeshua. You’ve heard of him?”

  I remembered my promise to Miriam.

  “Yeshua? No.”

  “Evidently he’s from Nazareth and follows in the way of the Baptizer. You’ve heard of the Baptizer?”

  This time I didn’t need to lie. “No.”

  She stared at the window, distracted by her thoughts. “The people flock to the Baptizer by the hundreds. He is a thorn in Herod’s side, but I rather like the idea of a sage speaking out against the Romans with so much boldness.”

  “Herod knows of this Yeshua?”

  “Of Yeshua? He worries only about threats to his kingdom, and Yeshua is no such thing. I am Nabataean and more disposed than my husband to ponder the claims of mystics. And yet”—she turned to me—“my heart also takes offense on behalf of these Jews oppressed by Rome.”

  “Oppressed by Rome or by Herod?” I said, and then wondered if I had spoken too boldly.

  “By both,” she said without so much as blinking. She turned to one of three Jewish chamber servants awaiting her direction. “Disrobe her, Esther. Let us show Maviah how to bathe as a queen.”

  “Yes, mistress.” The girl smiled.

  The slaves seemed as eager to serve me as Phasa was to have me served. And serve me they did, like mother hens. I did not lower myself into the bath—they eased me into it, one under each arm. When I reached for the cloth, they took it and spread the warm, soapy water over my shoulders. Then they gently scrubbed every inch of my skin, using a scented soap and a dried sponge from the sea.

  Having served a mistress in Egypt, I was familiar with giving baths, but those had not been so lavishly conducted or involved as many ointments as what Phasa’s servants rubbed onto my skin.

  I rose from the water smelling of lavender and stepped from the bathing room dressed in a blue silk robe.

  Phasa treated me royally the whole day. She talked endlessly about all the appointments of her palace, and of clothing and jewelry, and feasts, and her spoiled husband.

  And all the while, half of my mind was on Judah, my powerful Bedu protector from the desert, who was surely pacing in a hot cell, trusting in me.

  I did not see Herod again until the evening came. We met in a private dining room off of his chambers. I was presented there in a turquoise silk gown. My long hair was cleaned, brushed, plaited, and glistening with ointments that made it appear even darker than it was naturally. I had relied on Phasa’s choice of jewelry, and after much deliberation she’d insisted on silver-and-black-onyx bracelets around my wrists and at my elbows, a silver necklace with a single onyx stone, and across my forehead a simple silver band polished so that it could be used for a mirror.

  For the first time I felt like a queen, even if only as a hypocrite playing on Herod’s stage.

  Herod was already reclined against cushions on one of the ornate couches. The marble table before it was constructed in a semicircular fashion, like a waning moon. This I knew to be a Roman style, allowing easy access for the servants who stood at the ready.

  “As you requested,” Phasa said proudly. “Is she not beautiful?”

  Herod stood and approached, eyes sparkling by the light of a dozen candles. He took my hand and dipped his head.

  “As I said, the most stunning in all of Galilee. Come, sit. We have food, wine, and dancers to come.”

  I reclined between them. The food came and went, only to come and go again. Flatbread with fowl and fish and figs and cheeses and eggs and plums and grapes and squash and pears and olives and sweet sauces. And wine. Much too much wine, which I only sipped at, unlike my hosts, who seemed intent on dulling their senses with it.

  The Bedu know how to feast, but this banquet consisted of far more variety than I had ever encountered.

  The dancers, too, came and went, much to Herod’s delight. We talked of everything and nothing, avoiding the true nature of my mission, which could only be discussed alone with Herod, a prospect that I could not remove from my mind. Nor could I displace thoughts of Judah, who was surely eating only bread with water, or perhaps a soup.

  “Now then, my dear Phasa,” Herod finally said, fully fed. “Give me some time alone with our guest to discuss her father.”

  Phasa rose agreeably. I suspected that she was too pleased about his departure the following day to object to anything.

  “As you wish. Remember what I told you, Maviah. Go for the eyes.” She smiled at me, then left without a second look at her husband.

  Herod dismissed the servants, who closed the doors upon exiting. So then, I was finally alone w
ith the king of Galilee.

  “I trust your day with Phasa was pleasant,” he said.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “She isn’t one to hold her tongue.”

  “I appreciate your delicacy regarding the matter at hand.”

  “And what matter is that, my dear?”

  “Rami’s request.”

  “Yes, of course. The great betrayal in the desert.” He reached for a burgundy grape. “Fortunately for you, Phasa isn’t terribly interested in politics. Anyone else would take great offense at your intention to betray her father.”

  This surprised me. “She wouldn’t be put off?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps, but she leaves her father’s business of state to him as long as she is set in good stead. If something were to happen to her, on the other hand, Aretas would not sit quietly, as you know.” He spoke as though the thought weighed him down. “Loyalty runs thick among the Nabataeans, at least as it pertains to blood.”

  “And among the Bedu,” I said.

  “And the Bedu.” He glanced at me. “Your father is a brave man.”

  “He is.”

  “Such bravery often ends in a premature death. But what is a ruler to do? The whole world conspires to rip power from those who have it. It’s a merciless business, pitting son against father, father against son. My father was the worst offender. You have heard?”

  “I know that he was ruthless. And that you owe your kingdom to him.”

  “Don’t we all owe what we have to our fathers?” He plucked another grape and stared at it between his fingers. “He had ten wives in all, you know. Not all survived his jealousy and wrath. He killed more than one son—until his death, I didn’t know if I would be the next. All this to protect his throne.”

  “And yet he still died.”

  “Of disease, which finally destroys us all. But my father was a great man in his own way. His reconstruction of Jerusalem stands as a marvel—the temple, of course, but also the hippodrome for chariot races and games in Greek fashion. Did you know he paraded victors through the streets naked? Gladiators, even, trained in the amphitheater he built beyond the city wall. Bloody business rejected by many Jews but loved by plenty of others. He even built caged houses for exotic beasts to be viewed by all who came to his games. It is no wonder the world loved him. My father spared no expense to impress, either in coin or in blood.”

  “And his son?”

  He grinned. “His son loves women and theater more than blood.”

  He’d charged me to speak like a queen, so I did.

  “What good is it to rule over a people if they hate you?”

  He hesitated, either intrigued or offended. “I see Phasa has given you more courage.”

  “None that a queen isn’t entitled to.”

  “And did my queen suggest that my people hate me?”

  “No, my lord.”

  He leaned back, looking off.

  “We don’t see eye to eye, Phasa and I. Our union honors my treaty with Aretas—that is all, and this we both know. You see my problem, dear Maviah. What good is the throne if I cannot find love in the arms of my own queen? And yet what good is a wife if I have no throne?”

  He was thoughtful, considering his own question.

  “So you will understand that I cannot afford to further upset Aretas. With this in mind, I must regretfully decline your request.”

  He said it all without looking at me, and I was too stunned to respond.

  “I have decided instead to send you to Aretas.”

  “Aretas?” I sat up quickly. “He’s now the enemy of my father.”

  “And so you are enemy to me, are you not? I will send you as my gift.”

  He meant to betray me.

  “How dare you?” I cried. “I offer you all the Kalb under Rami to wrest back control of the northern trade route with Rome’s help and you would send me to my death?”

  His face showed no anger, only amusement.

  “You do have spine. I like that. But I have no desire for more gold. Love is the only gift I long for.”

  He was asking for my love? Confusion spun through my mind as I considered the possibility that this was only Herod’s way of wooing me. Even so, I knew that Herod wasn’t interested in a whore’s love. He wanted a woman’s heart, and he surely knew that threats would not buy him mine.

  I saw then what I assumed to be the truth about the tetrarch of Galilee. Herod Antipas was a complex man of the heart, whose own had been turned to stone by a wife who could not reciprocate. He was indeed sick for love. He might risk his bond with Aretas for a woman who loved him, but not for glory or gold.

  If so, I had to offer him my heart, or I would be sent in chains to Aretas, who would learn the truth of Rami’s plans to betray him.

  For the sake of my people and my son, of Judah and my father, I felt compelled to change Herod’s heart toward me by whatever means necessary.

  I reached for the wine and filled my chalice. Then his, to the brim. Without waiting for him, I drained my own for courage and set the goblet down.

  Herod looked at me from beneath an arched brow. “You mistake me. I do not long for your love.”

  “But you must.” I picked up his glass and held it out to him. “Drink.”

  I only hoped that my boldness, born of fear more than experience, would play to my favor. He hesitated, then took the chalice, amused.

  “Drink it,” I said.

  Surprisingly, he did. All of it. “Is that all you offer, Queen? Wine?”

  “No. I offer far more, but you seem incapable of appreciating the weight of my offer. So my first gift to you will be proper thinking. You’ve studied the Greeks, I’m sure.”

  “Of course. I’m surprised you have.”

  “Then you know the value of proper lines of thought. Proper thought would suggest that letting Rome decide what to make of my offer would gain you far more than making the decision for them.”

  I slipped off my sandals and settled down to my belly, propped up by my elbows, calves bared. Surely I could speak Herod’s language.

  “Proper lines of thought would suggest you have nothing to risk in taking me to Rome—it is your duty. Aretas would accept that much. Rome would demand it.”

  None of this seemed to influence him. I reached for the wine and filled his goblet yet again.

  “Proper lines of thought would also suggest that for a lovesick man to ignore the company of a beautiful woman while taking such matters under consideration is foolish.” I handed him the wine. “As you said, what good is a throne if you cannot enjoy its spoils?”

  “Wine is not conducive to proper lines of thought,” he said.

  “Not for the common man, but I’ve heard it properly lubricates any king’s mind.”

  “Well then… you are more queen than I had thought.”

  “You see? Now you are finally thinking. So drink. Enjoy your last night before setting off to Rome.”

  He drank, only half this time, but by now he’d had five or six cups and I was sure that even he could not withstand its powers.

  “I’m not convinced,” he said, warming to my game. “Show me more of your… thoughts.”

  I lowered my hand and traced his knee with my finger, daring him with my eyes to resist. “First you will show me yours. Tell me what you are hiding from me. You have nothing to lose by taking me to Rome, and yet you refuse, thinking that Rome will never learn you rejected my gift of the trade routes. But you are wrong. Rome will learn.”

  “Oh?” He reached for my hand and stroked it lightly, which gave me pause, for I didn’t want his touch.

  “Of course they will learn,” I said. “You’ll send me to Aretas, who may well kill me, but not before I explain to him why he must immediately inform Rome of your betrayal.”

  I saw the hesitation in his eyes.

  “Aretas stands to gain if he tells Rome of your failure to take Rami’s offer to them,” I continued. “That offer will be useless by then, because
Aretas will have time to defend against the threat, and this will only infuriate Rome more.”

  It was clear by his look that he had underestimated me.

  It was also clear that he wasn’t terribly bothered about that. There was something else that played on his mind. What was he hiding?

  Another thought occurred to me.

  “You might also think that killing me this very night and letting my offer die with me will save you,” I said. “But again, you would be wrong.”

  “By the heavens, you have thought of everything, haven’t you? Then tell me how I would be wrong?”

  “First you will tell me what else you are hiding,” I said, running my hand across his thigh. “You are too intelligent to ignore such an opportunity for gain.”

  “The only gain that interests me now is love,” he said.

  In the space of one breath, I knew what he was hiding. Herod had his eyes on another woman. Not me, but someone he already knew. I was only a distraction.

  The king of Galilee was in love with another woman.

  Only Phasa stood in his way, for any betrayal of her would be a betrayal of Aretas. He was trying to win favor from Aretas in the event he sent Phasa back to Petra. It was the only thing that made sense to me.

  “Who is she?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “The woman you love.”

  His eyes shifted from mine, confirming my suspicions. I had stumbled upon a terrible secret. I could not afford to antagonize him.

  “It doesn’t matter what her name is,” I said. “You’re a king; this is your prerogative. And as you said, for a man to be king but not be loved is a terrible thing. I can see the distance between you and Phasa.”

  Herod stared at the candles without speaking.

  “Is it wrong, then, to seek the love that a king deserves?”

  His eyes moistened, surely aided by the wine. When he spoke, he did so as a man smitten, not as a king.

  “Who can know what it’s like for a king to live so long with a woman out of obligation? To be starved of love is like death for me.”

  I didn’t tell him that most marriages among the Bedu, as well as in Palestine, had nothing to do with sentiment. As a man of privilege he apparently expected love.