by Tracy Higley
“I am sure your week of mourning your dead brother and son has been most difficult.”
Alexandra started up from the bath, hatred burning away the clouded air between them, but a quiet word from Mariamme restrained her. Instead, Alexandra lifted her chin, straightened her shoulder as if she were queen, and gave Salome a cold smile. “It would seem you may soon understand Mariamme’s pain. The pain of losing a brother.”
Salome’s muscles tensed and she took two steps forward.
The servant girl stood and stepped between them as if her skinny frame could protect the queen.
“You sent one of your vile letters again, didn’t you?” Salome’s blood ran hot through her veins, and her fingers itched to strike the smug smile from Alexandra’s face. “What false accusations did you feed the Egyptian tramp?”
Mariamme’s shoulders lifted above the water, wet hair streaming against her pale skin. Her blue-green eyes were like ice chips above the steam. “False? You dare to deny that you and Herod plotted to murder my brother?”
Salome looked from mother to daughter. What did they know? “Antony will never believe you. He loves Herod.”
“Ha!” Alexandra’s mockery bounced off the dripping walls and ceiling. “Marc Antony does what is best for himself. If that is Herod as king of Judea, so be it. If not”—her dark eyebrows waggled above narrowed eyes—“then your family’s fraudulent reign is finished.”
It would serve no purpose to attack Alexandra. But oh, how she wished to place her hands around that wrinkled neck, to push her backward into the bath, to show her exactly how her son had died, lungs gasping, eyes bulging . . .
“Fraudulent reign? Fraudulent! We have fought and scrabbled for everything we have gained in this miserable land, from the day your forefather Jacob stole the birthright from our forefather Esau, to the day your great-grandfather conquered Idumea and put us to the sword if we did not convert. Now at last we are given a chance to govern what should have always been ours, and you dare to call us false? It is you who have worked falsely to push Herod from his rightful throne in favor of Aristobulus!”
Mariamme rose from the water, and the servant wrapped a robe around her dripping body. “And it is you who have plotted to kill him. Do not deny it, Salome.” Mariamme inclined her head to the Egyptian girl. “Lydia heard you and Cypros.”
Salome focused on the girl for the first time. “Lydia. And I suppose it was Lydia who ensured that your letter would reach her former mistress, Cleopatra?” She peered into the girl’s eyes, tried to get the measure of her. She had sensed an unwelcome strength about this girl before. “Perhaps you have been here on Cleopatra’s behalf all these years? Spying on us, sending your lies to Egypt?”
Lydia met her gaze. “I am no friend to Cleopatra. And neither do I lie. But I know what I heard.”
The impudent little thing. Salome would deal with her later.
Right now there was the more immediate double crisis. Herod’s execution might be ordered by Marc Antony, and Mariamme could drop a son into the world at any moment, a son who would be hailed as the logical replacement for both Aristobulus and Herod. And if named king, the boy would have his mother as coregent, with the grandmother backing them both.
And where would that leave Salome?
A direct attack on Mariamme would likely only result in the child’s healthy birth. It was too late for another try with her herbs and potions. Besides, the child might be a girl and not named king at all. Better to wait and see before taking the risk.
“My daughter is in need of rest now, Salome.” Alexandra put an arm around Mariamme’s shoulders. “You will excuse us.”
No, she would not excuse them for anything. But she would let them go.
For now.
Salome gripped the rail of her private balcony and watched Herod’s entourage roll away from the Antonia palace, north toward Syria and Herod’s fate.
There had been no tears at their good-bye. They were not that sort of family. But Herod’s nod toward her held all the final words needed. Watch over my kingdom until I return. Do not let them take it from us.
Would he return?
She would hope for the best and plan for the worst. Herod’s young son, sequestered away with the divorced commoner Doris, would need to be protected. Mariamme’s child, if a son, would need to be eliminated.
And Salome needed a daughter.
She turned from the balcony and startled. “Joseph! Why must you always be so quiet, sneaking up on me?”
Her husband leaned over the rail. “Have they gone?”
She shoved past him into her chamber. “He will return. Antony loves him.”
“I am to keep guard over the queen while he is away.”
Salome whirled on him. “Oh, you will enjoy that, won’t you?” At his quick flush, she laughed, though the truth still grated. “I have seen the way you look at her, old man. But Herod might as well have left a eunuch in charge, eh?”
Joseph looked away, focused on her table of goddess-worship accoutrements.
So Herod had left her husband to watch his wife. Not his friend and captain of the guard. Interesting. Had he too seen the exchanged glances between Mariamme and Sohemus? Salome had noticed for months but said nothing. Better to save the information for when it was most useful.
Joseph fiddled with the figurine of Al-Uzzá on her table.
She crossed to him and smacked his hand away.
His shoulders drooped. “Herod believes he will not return.”
She straightened her sacred beads and sacrificial knives. “Do not speak foolishness.”
“He gave me instructions if he should not.”
She turned a wary gaze on him. “What sort of instructions?”
He shook his head. “Sometimes I believe the boy has a madness in him.”
Joseph’s reference to Herod as a “boy” when her brother was nearly forty only highlighted how very old her husband was.
“He says that if Mariamme is not to belong to him in life, then she is to belong to him in death, and to no one else.”
Salome’s heart raced. “What are you saying?”
“He gave me orders that if we receive news of his execution, it should be followed swiftly by Mariamme’s death.”
Oh, this was too delicious.
Salome twirled a knife in her hand. How best to use this information?
If Herod were executed and if Mariamme died before birthing a son, their family’s reign through Doris’s son was still assured. But it was too many ifs. Herod might still return.
She sighed mournfully. “Poor Mariamme. Herod loves her so dearly and yet she believes that he cares nothing for her.”
“How can that be? He is so devoted—”
“She wants more, I suppose. You know these Jews. They are never satisfied with what they have.”
Joseph’s gaze drifted to the open balcony where Herod had disappeared, but his thoughts seemed elsewhere.
It was enough for now.
“On your way out, husband, tell my maid to fetch me Mariamme’s maid, Lydia.”
He nodded once and shuffled to the door.
She did not have long to prepare.
She moved on silent feet about the chamber, drawing the heavy drapes at the windows and balcony, assembling her instruments on the marble table near her bedside. All the while communing with the fertility goddess in mind and spirit, seeking Al-Uzzá’s dark wisdom and strengthening power.
A voice came from the hall. “You sent for me?”
No address of respect. No “mistress” or “my lady.” The girl seemed to think herself equal with the queen by nature of Mariamme’s reliance on her.
“Come in, Lydia. Close the door.”
The girl hesitated, but what could she do but comply?
With the door shut and no lamps lit, the chamber fell into a weighty darkness, velvety and cool against Salome’s skin. Her eyes fluttered briefly and she felt the pleasure of the goddess on her.
&n
bsp; “You must find this land strange, Lydia. With its One God and all His many requirements.”
The girl stood straight and composed. “I am a long way from home.”
“And were you a worshipper of Isis back in Egypt?”
“I . . . I had a variety of religious influences in the palace.”
Salome tried to read the level of devotion in the girl’s heart. “Hmm. Yes, I’m sure.” Strangely, she could see nothing. Did the girl have no faith of any kind? “And since coming to Judea? Have you taken hold of the One God?”
“Was this why you wanted to see me, my lady?”
Salome lowered herself to the chair placed at an angle before her bedside table and ran a light hand over her instruments. “I am only trying to discern where your loyalty lies. I would hate to think you still favored the queen of your youth over the queen you currently serve.”
“Mariamme has my full devotion, I assure you.”
Salome picked up a hooked blade, squeezed its solid bone handle within her fist, and closed her eyes. Though a physical tool, in the right hands the blade could be used to dig knowledge from the soul of another, or even to hollow out that very soul. She turned it slowly in the air, tiny motions like the scraping of a strigil. She would extract whatever the girl knew, then leave her powerless and open to future probing.
But the blade seemed only capable of chafing the air.
A flicker of fear chased along Salome’s veins.
She turned on Lydia, used razor-sharp thoughts to bring all the power the goddess had granted down on the girl, blanketing her with a suffocating darkness.
And then the blanket evaporated like mist.
Confused, she rose from the table and circled the girl. Had she underestimated her? Perhaps she was a sorceress and had brought the power of Isis with her from her ancient temples and pyramids.
Lydia’s feet remained fixed, but she followed Salome’s slow circle with her gaze, as though perplexed. Her face remained clear, guileless. Not the face of a sorceress wielding power.
“How are you doing this?” Salome’s voice came out as a hiss, more frightened than threatening.
“My lady?”
“How are you hindering me?”
The girl frowned—a quick, puzzled look that gave away nothing.
Salome grabbed Lydia’s arm. A jolt like summer lightning shot up her fingers and into her chest. She jerked away. The girl’s skin was on fire!
The shock ran through her, down to her feet, and left her woozy. She put one hand out to empty air to steady herself and another to her nauseated belly.
Lydia faced her and her lips were moving.
Salome heard nothing but the whoosh, whoosh of blood in her ears. She swayed and thrust one hand between herself and the loathsome girl.
Lydia took a step toward her, hand outstretched like a claw.
Salome scuttled backward, her own hands thrown in front for protection. “Get away!”
It was more than the barred entrance to the girl’s soul. There was a power that surrounded the servant, a power Salome had never encountered. She gasped for air, her chest constricting. What god or goddess was this?
And why had she been abandoned by her own? “You are protected. Not from within, from your own doing. From without. Whose power surrounds you?”
But Lydia said nothing.
Al-Uzzá had failed her. Salome had been carried on a wave of energy, buoyed by the goddess’s support for so many years, transported toward her goals. But this—this was a different sort of power, and the wave of power collapsed under her, leaving her suffocating in darkness.
She cursed her buckling legs, cursed the stone floor that cracked against her knees, cursed the girl who bent over her, lips still moving in silent incantation.
“Salome? Are you ill?”
No incantation. Only words of pretended concern.
She braced her hands against the floor, knees throbbing and chest heaving. Tears dripped from her eyes, but she would be dead before she let the girl see them.
Lydia leaned forward, her outer robe falling toward the floor and a leather-corded pendant escaping from her tunic. The pendant swung before Salome’s eyes.
In the darkness it was difficult to see. Was that—? She grabbed at it.
Lydia pulled back.
But Salome had seen it. A bronze disc with a raised relief.
“Where did you get that?” She peered at the necklace from her place on the floor. “Are you also a thief?”
Lydia’s hand circled over it, hiding the pendant. “I will call for the palace physician.”
“No.” Salome pushed herself to standing. “No, just go.” She would not admit that with Lydia’s presence removed, her physical symptoms would abate. The servant seemed to have no awareness of her own power.
Indeed, when the door closed behind Lydia, Salome’s strength rushed in like a torrent filling an empty cistern.
The goddess was silent, but Salome was not.
In a rage that gave her uncanny sight into every object in the dark room, she hurled pots and overturned furniture and screamed.
She had gone unchallenged for too many years to be overthrown by a servant.
Her list of objectives had a new addition.
Mariamme and her baby must be eliminated, yes. But Lydia of Alexandria must go with them.
Chapter 22
Lydia laid Mariamme’s yellow linen undertunic over a padded couch in the queen’s bedchamber to dry. If Mariamme grew much larger, she might no longer fit the tunic.
“There is another here that has a tear, Lydia. Would you see to it?”
Lydia straightened her shoulders with a brief closing of her eyes, then turned to the queen and took the ripped dress from her. Her fingers snagged against the silk. “There seems to be no end to clothing troubles today, my lady.” She meant for the words to sound light, but her irritation leaked out.
Mariamme did not seem to notice. She sat at her dressing table, fiddling with her cosmetics. The room was one of elegance and comfort. From the frescoed walls to decorative pottery and luxurious bedcoverings, Lydia had spared no effort in making Mariamme’s chamber the finest in the palace.
The brazier in the corner had mercifully died down to embers. The room was overly warm. Without the brazier’s light, only a single lamp dispelled the evening gloom. Lydia moved about the chamber, straightening cushions, clearing cups and platters from earlier in the day, running a damp cloth over the marble furniture and bases of the green-and-gold-painted columns. Her stomach churned with an evening meal that did not sit well, and her thoughts were far from her duties.
Their sudden departure from Jericho in the wake of Aristobulus’s death—his murder—had been necessary but painful, if she were to admit it. While her friendship with David had been a balm since leaving Caesarion in Egypt, the beginning of the friendship with Simon had been something altogether different. The way he comforted her after the drowning . . .
She shook off the dark thoughts and folded the jumble of waiting baby clothes from a woven basket. She was back in Jerusalem now, and if the High Priest’s death had done nothing else, it had served to solidify her decision to take the matter of the scrolls into her own hands and find the Chakkiym before the next Yom HaKippurim. Before Salome realized they were hidden in her own palace.
Lydia moved from the baby clothes to examine a new dress that had been sent up for Mariamme earlier in the day. She would add some gold stitching at the shoulders and waist, but the Tyrian purple dye was still so pungent, it watered her eyes.
Salome.
Lydia’s shoulders convulsed in a little chill, a reminder of the encounter. She had been nearly oblivious to Salome and her dark obsessions all these years. What bearing did any such thing have on her?
And yet in Salome’s chamber, there had been something—a feeling, a pressure—upon her that had been very personal. She had fallen under the scrutiny of Herod’s sister in the baths. Salome was angry that Lydia repeated
the threat against Aristobulus and helped the women get a letter out of the palace. But the animosity Lydia felt in the woman’s chamber was something more.
“You are protected. Not from within. From without.”
What did it mean? Was it Samuel’s promise that his God would protect her? She had done nothing to earn it, though she was trying to learn and sometimes sent a few coins with David for sacrifice at the Temple, as Samuel had done in Alexandria. At the thought of her old friend, an unexpected jolt of anger coursed through her. Why had he given her this task that seemed to draw darkness to her—forces she did not understand? She needed to get rid of those scrolls.
“Lydia, come and brush my hair. It is nearly time for the dinner.”
She took up the brush and ran it through Mariamme’s heavy red hair mechanically. The passing chatter of a cluster of servant girls in the hall grated against her nerves.
“You have been quiet tonight, Lydia.”
“Apologies, my lady.”
Mariamme shook her head slightly under the brush. “No need. I am merely concerned. But then, you have been somber since Jericho.”
Images of Aristobulus’s blue body floated in her memory.
“We all have.”
Mariamme fell silent and her head lowered as if too heavy to hold upright.
Lydia paused in her brushing and put a hand to Mariamme’s shoulder. “I am sorry again, my lady. I did not mean to remind you—”
“As if I could forget.” Mariamme sniffed, lifted her head, and indicated Lydia should continue brushing. “But I am trying.” She half turned with a smile. “I thought perhaps your sadness arose from leaving behind that palace manager—Simon, is it?”
Had Mariamme learned to read her so well? The distance from Jerusalem to Jericho seemed vast and hopeless.
The brush hit a tangle and caught. Lydia jerked it downward.
