by Tracy Higley
He could not afford to let that happen. Not when they were so close.
Mariamme reached an arm across the silky fabric of the red cushion and yanked a few grapes from an overripe cluster on a gold tray. They went soft between her fingers, and she tossed them back to the platter.
“You are peevish this morning, Mariamme. Have an orange if the grapes do not please you.” Her mother chewed slowly, her dark eyes lowered. Servants crossed behind her, carrying and settling more trays of food before the women, pouring wine.
Herod had spared no expense in settling his women in the lavish family home his father had built in Samaria. Though himself a Greek-lover, the house was built in the style of a Roman villa, with a large frescoed triclinium for dining, its three sumptuous couches arranged around a brazier. With only a small, high window on one wall, the brazier’s flames lit the room and chased off the autumn chill.
Mariamme propped herself on one elbow and scowled over the brazier. She rarely confronted Alexandra, but her mother’s indifference today left her restless and irritated. “It is the Day of Atonement, Mother. A day of fasting.” She spread a hand toward the heavy-laden tables. “And you prepare the most lavish of meals. Have you forgotten what it is to be a Jew?”
Alexandra’s lips thinned to a tight slash. “How dare you, girl? Everything I have done has been for my people.” A slave bent to place honey cakes on her platter and she shoved him away. “Even now, with your Herod wandering the countryside for the past year, trying to grasp the kingdom with his greedy Idumean fingers, I am here—planning, directing—”
“Manipulating.”
Alexandra’s eyes were dead cold. She smoothed back her still-black hair, worn loose in the Roman fashion. “Call it what you will. My father was High Priest of Judea for nearly all my life, before that traitor Antigonus had him exiled to Babylon. I know where power lies and how to command it.” She reached for a jeweled cup and raised it to Mariamme. “You’ll see me in Hades before I let both the High Priesthood and the kingship be stolen from our family.”
Mariamme’s stomach churned, though she had eaten no food since Yom HaKippurim had begun at last sunset. “Then why do you insist on this alliance with Herod? Can you not see that my brother—”
“Your brother is too young.” Her mother’s words were clipped, rushed.
Mariamme would not be dismissed so quickly. “He is fourteen. Perhaps not old enough for the High Priesthood, but the people would soon serve him as king. The Pharisees would back him.”
Alexandra swung her legs from the cushion and sat upright. “You will marry Herod, Mariamme. I am tired of this argument.”
“And I am tired of being no more than a coin in a nasty bit of bartering!” She flung out a hand and flipped the tray of warm grapes. It clattered to the mosaic floor, the grapes smashed beneath it.
Her mother’s brows rose at the uncharacteristic outburst.
Mariamme sank against the cushions, already spent by the argument. But the truth must be spoken. “He frightens me, Mother. Do you not see it?”
She shrugged. “He has the way of a king about him. They are all power-hungry tyrants, else they would not be kings.” She leaned forward with a sly smile. “And I may be your mother, Mariamme, but we are both women. Do not try to tell me that all that strength, all that cunning charm, does not fire your blood just a bit, eh?”
Mariamme would not acknowledge the innuendo. Nor the stab of fear that her mother’s comment was perhaps a truth better left concealed. She despised the way Herod made her feel—both repulsed and drawn at once. What kind of woman did that make her?
Herod had already divorced his first wife—a commoner by the name of Doris—and cast aside their son, to be free to make this alliance with her family. He had no scruples, no morals. But if the divorce did not concern her mother, something else must. “That business in Galilee in the spring—do you not remember his face when he told of it? He lay right there”—Mariamme pointed to Alexandra’s couch—“and told of the Galilean nationalists he slaughtered, his men lowering cages to where they hid in cliff-side caves, dragging them out, forcing some to leap to their deaths.”
How many nights had she lain awake, thinking of those poor Jews clinging to the sides of cliffs? And of Herod’s nonchalant amusement as he told the story? Yes, her hatred of Herod ran as deep as his own ambition.
Alexandra sighed, as though Mariamme were a child afraid of nothing more than imagined fiends.
“Mother, he laughed when he told of that father of seven who stood at the cave’s mouth, called his children one by one and killed each of them, then killed his wife and himself rather than to fall into the hands of an imposter king who is not a Jew—”
“Enough!” Alexandra shot to her feet and circled the couches. She sank a knee into the cushion beside Mariamme and grabbed her wrist.
Mariamme half turned and lay prostrate under her mother’s wrath. Her heart raced but she met Alexandra’s glare with hostility of her own. How she longed to fling Alexandra from her, to push back against the force that had always been too strong for her.
“You are a foolish girl, Mariamme. You do not understand the way of things. We are a small piece of the world here in Judea—a tasty morsel being fought over by the two mongrels of Parthia and Rome.” She shook Mariamme’s arm, her lip curled. “Rome will win, there can be no doubt. My father, Hyrcanus, understood that, and he made sure that when Rome put Herod’s father, Antipater, on the throne of Judea, he made himself a friend to the man. With Antipater dead these five years, of course Rome’s favor has fallen on his son, Herod.”
She loosed her grip on Mariamme’s wrist and stood. “And I am my father’s daughter. Where he befriended Antipater, I befriend Herod. You will be his wife, and together you will rule Judea.” Her voice turned to pleading. “Do you not see, Mariamme? We are not aligning ourselves with Herod. You, my daughter, will be queen. A Hasmonean will still retain the throne. Herod is aligning himself with us.”
Mariamme half raised herself from the couch, her arms still propped behind. “Then it is you who is the fool, Mother. Rome will never see me as anything but Herod’s wife and Ari as a yapping dog.”
Alexandra’s face slap was swift and unexpected.
Mariamme fell backward, hand against her stinging cheek, breathing hard.
Alexandra’s eyes were aflame. “The boy will be king someday, have no doubt. But we must bide our time. And you must do your duty to bridge the gap.”
Mariamme turned away. The argument was useless, but still she rebelled. How could she marry a man such as Herod? Give him children? She tried to stifle the shudder that passed through her body. Mother would only see it as weakness.
“And do not underestimate Salome, my girl. She gains some kind of power from her wicked spells and idolatrous worship of her pagan gods. Sometimes I believe she has the very demons ready to do her bidding.”
A voice at the doorway drew them both. “My lady?”
Alexandra sighed at the servant girl’s interruption. “Yes? What is it?”
A shrieking sound echoed through the courtyard beyond the doorway.
“What in heaven—?” Alexandra’s hands went to her hips.
“That is what I was coming to tell you.” The girl inclined her head toward the courtyard. “Salome is searching for you and in a singular rant. She has heard that you turned away the silk merchant without letting her make a purchase.”
“Ach! The greedy little hyena would have us all eating cattle feed for the sake of her wardrobe. Run off, girl, and tell her I’ve gone out. I can’t abide dealing with her this morning.” Alexandra rubbed at her temples. “I have a headache.”
“Yes, my lady.”
The girl passed another on her way out. Aristobulus, her dear younger brother.
At fourteen, he was quickly becoming a man, though the famed beauty of his childhood still rested on his perfect features. Tawny hair, deep-set brown eyes, and full lips. Every young girl who set eyes on him
fell in love, and every old woman wanted him for a pet.
He lingered in the doorway, his gaze scanning his mother standing over his sister.
Alexandra’s arms widened to an open embrace. “My son. Come. Have something to eat.”
Aristobulus’s gaze shifted to Mariamme, the question in his eyes obvious. Was it not a day of fasting?
Mariamme gave him a small nod and a tiny shrug of one shoulder, and he shook his head and sighed. Despite their five-year age difference, they were always able to communicate with few words. Perhaps it was all the hours spent together, hiding from their mother’s moods. No sister and brother could be closer.
“No, thank you, Mother.” Aristobulus leaned against the doorway. “I am not hungry.”
Alexandra gave an exasperated snort. “You and your sister. Two of a kind.”
He would not even mention the day. Aristobulus was no stronger than she when it came to confronting Alexandra.
Ari handed their mother a sealed scroll. “A letter, Mother. Just arrived with a soldier from Jericho—Herod’s new favorite, Simon.”
“Jericho!” Alexandra tore at the waxy seal. “What is he doing there?”
Mariamme’s pulse hammered in her throat. Herod sent letters only when there was significant progress in his battle against Antigonus. And to send Simon—did it mean Herod was coming to claim his bride? “Read it aloud, Mother.”
She waved a hand in Mariamme’s direction, her attention already fixed on the letter, scanning its lines as though she would lift only the critical content from the papyrus. A moment later she raised stricken eyes and nodded. “He begins with greetings for all of us. Cypros and Salome first, of course. That man has an unnatural affection for his mother and sister—”
“The letter, Mother!”
She shrugged. “He greets me, then you and your brother. Then tells of his progress since he visited here in the spring. ‘Antony sent two legions and a thousand cavalry to my aid in Galilee under that snake of a general Macherus. We were to assault Jerusalem together. Macherus thought himself worthy of a bribe by Antigonus instead, but Antigonus refused him. Macherus returned to me, slaughtering every Jew he met along the way, including many of my own supporters.’”
Mariamme gasped. These Romans were dogs, as Mother had said.
Alexandra continued reading. “‘Your husband’s brother Antigonus is a fool, but nevertheless the people favor him too well because of his lineage. Even the Pharisees have joined with their rival Sadducees to back him. With your father Hyrcanus in Babylon, all the hopes of the people are focused on him. And so it is time for Rome to make good on her promise to make me king.’”
This would be it, then. The news worth writing about. Mariamme hardened herself for whatever was to come.
Alexandra lowered herself to a couch, her finger running over the lines.
“‘I left Joseph in Judea with orders not to quarrel with Macherus while I myself pushed forward to Syria to intercept Antony where he was fighting the Parthians. He finally made good on the troops he should have given a year ago, and the general Sosius and I traveled south with legions. It was here in Antioch that I had a most terrible dream, my love.’” Alexandra stumbled over the word and lifted her eyes to Mariamme.
Herod’s letter had been written to her mother, as was proper, but clearly he had Mariamme in mind as he penned it, accidentally addressing her. The oft-repeated endearment was always delivered with a sickening flattery. Why, when she had given him no encouragement, did he seem to dote on her?
“Continue, Mother.”
“‘A terrible dream. You know how I am severely troubled by them at times, and how the gods seem to speak to me through them. I dreamed that my brother was dead. I will not horrify you with the details of the dream, but the next day when I awoke, I learned that Joseph had disregarded my instructions and led troops against Antigonus. He is dead, my love. His head flaunted in grotesque display before the people, even when our brother Pheroras offered to redeem it.’”
Mariamme closed her eyes, heart heavy. She had spent a year in the fortress of Masada with Joseph and his men there in protection. He had been a decent man.
“‘That is not the worst of it, I fear. News of his death spread quickly. The nationalists have tasted blood and want more. Revolts are flaring all over the lands we hold in Galilee and Idumea. Prominent supporters are being drowned in the sea. I must urge you to take care there in Samaria, for I believe Antigonus’s general—the brute Pappas who severed the head of my brother with his own sword—is on his way to take Samaria as well.’”
Alexandra’s voice faltered, the only sign that Herod’s news struck fear into her as it did Mariamme.
“‘As for myself, there is nothing for me but to push forward despite the coming winter rains. We have marched to Jericho, and from here will advance on Pappas’s troops. But you must be strong, all of you gentle and dear women of my heart, and keep yourselves safe until he is dealt with. We have the might of Rome behind us now, and we cannot fail. I shall see us all in the palace of Jerusalem by spring, I have no doubt.’”
Alexandra let the letter flutter to the cushion.
Mariamme snatched it up, searched its lines for anything more. But there was nothing.
Her mother and brother drifted from the room, lost to their own thoughts, it seemed. Lydia appeared soon after and began clearing the uneaten food. Her hands shook. Had she heard the news directly from Simon?
The girl had become indispensable here in Samaria. What would she have done without Lydia when Herod’s sister, Salome, needled her with cruel remarks, or Mother chastised her for being too cold, too quiet, too everything?
Yes, the gift of her handmaid was the only good thing Herod had ever done for her. Lydia knew when to speak and when to be silent, and everywhere she moved she left some touch of beauty in her wake. In the year they’d been together, Lydia had grown in confidence and in talent. Often Mariamme envied the girl’s freedom. No one would force her into a marriage of alliance. But Lydia had been morose all day. It could not be the words of the letter that left her sad.
“It seems we are to be attacked, Lydia.”
The girl’s gaze flicked sideways, then back to her work. “Bad news, then, my lady?”
“Perhaps you had an omen. You have been so glum today.”
“It is Yom HaKippurim, my lady. A day to reflect on one’s guilt.”
Mariamme tilted her head and examined Lydia. “But you are Egyptian. What do you care about a Judean holiday?”
Lydia swept crumbs into the palm of her hand and deposited them on a tray. “I have reason to believe my mother was Jewish.”
Mariamme sat upright. “Reason to believe? Do you not know who your mother was?”
Lydia shook her head but continued her clearing of utensils.
“Well then, I shall consider you my Jewish sister.” How had she never heard this? “Perhaps we should go to synagogue together for the closing prayers today. It is a good day to pray. We are in need of both forgiveness and protection.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Perhaps HaShem heard their prayers, for as the autumn leaves fell and the winter rains descended, the nationalist Pappas’s army was besieged by the Roman Macherus’s legions and never came closer than a Roman mile from the Herodian family home where the women waited daily in anxious expectation of attack. The news came sporadically—Herod had defeated rebels in Galilee in a night attack; he had been wounded in Jericho. The story came of a house collapsing only minutes after Herod and his prominent guests had left, a good omen in Herod’s mind. Then a series of savage raids in which Herod captured five towns and put more than two thousand captives to the sword in vengeance for his brother’s death. He was gaining support; his ranks were swelling with those who hated Antigonus and those who would throw their allegiance behind whomever was succeeding.
And success was being parceled out to Herod. After an ambush set like highway robbers, Pappas’s nationalist force was ann
ihilated and Pappas himself killed, his head cut off and sent to Pheroras in just recompense for their brother Joseph’s death. It had been a massively bloody battle, and only a blizzard prevented Herod from turning at once on Jerusalem, where Antigonus was nearly ready to surrender.
Herod had predicted they would be in Jerusalem by spring, and when the countryside greened with new growth and the damp air freshened with the scent of almond blossoms, another letter arrived with news that was expected.
The women gathered in the columned courtyard to hear it, and Mariamme listened to the reading with head high. She would not cry, not let her mother see the terror the words brought. It was her familial duty.
Herod’s troops had been besieging Jerusalem for a month. He was confident the city would soon be his. As a show of confidence, he was coming to Samaria. Their five-year betrothal would finally be consummated. The wedding would show the entire country that he was to be their new king, married to the Hasmonean princess who united both lines of the feuding brothers in her blood.
Mariamme put a hand to a green-and-gold-painted column to steady the dizziness that swept her vision and tumbled in her head. She felt like she was falling from the blood-red cliffs of Masada, still in the air, still intact, but watching the merciless ground rush up to claim her.
“Prepare,” his letter instructed the four women living in constant hostility.
“I am coming for my wife.”
Chapter 17
It must be today.
Lydia tightened the leather straps that held the precious scrolls to her chest, then shrugged into a stained tunic. She threw a mantle of drab brown around her shoulders and over her hair. Would she blend into the terrified city? One more girl combing the bloodied streets in search of crumbs for her family?
Herod had taken Mariamme for his wife in Samaria, but he had brought them all here to Jerusalem, including his sister, Salome, and her new handmaid, Riva, to watch the siege that he and the Roman commander Sosius directed from their encampment outside the northern walls. Herod boasted that he attacked the city from the north where it was unprotected by ravines, in the same manner as Pompey some twenty-five years earlier. He would be equally successful, he declared.
