The Queen's Handmaid

by Tracy Higley

  David waited at the door, nodded once, and beckoned them inward.

  Lydia helped Mariamme as best she could to struggle from the wagon and walk slowly into the palace and down the steps to the storeroom chambers.

  Once on the lower level, she took the baby from Mariamme. Simon swept Mariamme into his arms and carried her through the storerooms, then up the staircase that opened into the courtyard. David ran ahead, then returned to signal.

  It had taken only minutes, and it did not appear that they had been spotted by anyone, miraculously.

  They entered Mariamme’s bedchamber as a group.

  Alexandra jumped from a chair, rushed forward, and laid a hand on Mariamme’s pale cheek. “Oh, my daughter, what a terrible time you have had.” And then her attention was all for the baby.

  Mariamme was set up in the bed, the baby returned to her arms, and the conspirators stood back and breathed.

  Had they really accomplished it?

  Marc Antony had sent Herod back from Syria with nothing more than a shrug and a grin. The Roman had ordered the death of members of his own family—it was an expedient way to handle power, he said. Why should he interfere when Herod did the same?

  In the days that followed, Herod seemed taken only with the appearance of his son, and no whispered gossip betrayed them. Alexandra’s vague promise that she was working to accomplish Herod’s death was not mentioned among them.

  Mariamme wanted to name the baby Aristobulus. Herod would not even consider it. Perhaps he feared what sort of loyalty the little namesake might provoke among the people, coming so soon after the drowning of the young High Priest.

  No, he was to be Alexander, like his father and great-grandfather before him.

  Lydia saw little of Salome, but the woman seemed particularly displeased with the turn of events. A Hasmonean son was not good news.

  Within a week, somehow Herod learned of Joseph’s slip—that he had told Mariamme of Herod’s lethal instructions. Perhaps emboldened by Marc Antony’s apathy over the death of Aristobulus, Herod seemed to think it prudent to have old Joseph executed. And Alexandra was to be kept under stricter guard—a house arrest for the queen’s scheming mother.

  News of the royal family hanging still buzzed in the streets the morning Lydia finally ventured into the city again to find Phineas and Ephraim, the old rabbis she had met in the synagogue, and ask them about the Chakkiym.

  After a few well-placed questions, she found them in the Valley Gate, still arguing and discussing the Law. She took a seat among their listeners.

  Their current conversation was about Hyrcanus, Alexandra’s father and the former High Priest who had been given duties by a placating Herod but whose infirmities made him a mockery in the Temple. The rabbis seemed angry, but from what she had seen, she felt only pity for the old man.

  She waited through the morning until most had drifted away before inching closer and venturing her first question about the writings of Daniel.

  They seemed surprised at such a question from a woman and gave her vague and general answers. Yes, the writings were sacred with prophecies for the end of days and the Messiah to come. When would He come? It would be soon. The prophesied era was upon them, the years decreed from the end of exile until Messiah’s appearance had all but elapsed. They looked for Him to appear any day now and free them from tyranny.

  Did they have all of Daniel’s writings intact, she asked, or were some sealed and then lost? Well, perhaps. Perhaps not.

  Lydia sighed with frustration, then blurted out the question she had planned to make more subtle. “And what of the Chakkiym? Charged to guard the sealed writings of Daniel until the end?”

  At this, heads jerked her direction, eyes narrowed, shoulders hunched.

  “What does a servant girl know of such things?” Ephraim asked.

  “I am only trying to learn as much as I can. I would very much like to speak with one of these—”

  “Foolish tales.” Ephraim fluttered his fingers in dismissal. “Told by fanciful old women to their sons in hopes that some secret knowledge will be our deliverance. There is nothing to these tales.”

  Lydia eyed Phineas, and though he did not appear to agree with Ephraim, nevertheless his eyes were hard and angry. She would learn nothing there.

  She returned to the palace on slow feet. Where to go from here? Would she have no other recourse but to wait another six months for the next Yom HaKippurim?

  The idea offered some measure of relief. She was tired. Tired of trying and of waiting and of feeling this constant pressure to live up to the expectations of a man no longer alive. What would it be like to simply forget the scrolls for months and then only do her duty on that one day each year?

  She trudged through the palace’s great arch into the central courtyard, humming with servants crisscrossing its mosaic floors and tending to the myriad flowers and trees. Was there more activity than usual?

  She stopped a young slave, a Gaul, if she remembered correctly. “Are we to have important visitors?”

  He nodded, eyes wide. “Visitors from Egypt. Cleopatra is coming!”

  The smaller of the palace courtyards, used exclusively for private family gatherings, was empty at this late hour, but the enormous iron brazier in the center still blazed, its flames only beginning to settle to black-orange embers under the chips of fuel.

  Lydia leaned against the coolness of a nearby marble column, warmed enough by the fire to remain in spite of the winter air. She had wrapped a woolen mantle around her shoulders to stave off the chill. She needed to be alone.

  Her eyes fluttered and closed in the drowsy warmth of the brazier, and her mind floated over facts and feelings like a butterfly flitting over a multitude of blooms.

  Cleopatra would arrive by morning. Would she remember her anger toward Lydia? Would she remember Lydia at all? Most important, would Caesarion be with her?

  The scrolls remained hidden in her chamber. Did she have any further responsibility to seek out the Chakkiym between the yearly holidays? Would HaShem protect her still from Salome when Lydia had done nothing for Him? Passages from Samuel’s teachings returned to her. Of a God who would be her refuge and fortress, her Father. She had never had a father, and she sorely needed a refuge.

  “You are exhausted.”

  She lifted her head from the column and searched the shadows of the courtyard for the familiar voice.

  Simon emerged with a smile that looked more like pity.

  “You have been attending the queen and her son at all hours. Why do you not leave it to the nursemaid?”

  Lydia turned back to the fire and rested her head against the column again. “I need to be useful.”

  He laughed and came to stand in front of the fire, warming his hands. “This I know.” He turned to her. “But it’s more than fatigue. There is something else. Something around your eyes.” He took a step closer. “Is it Cleopatra? Are you worried about her arrival?”

  Lydia shrugged. “I did not leave under the best of circumstances. But it has been five years. She may not even remember me.”

  “Oh, I doubt that. You are somewhat unforgettable.”

  The compliment warmed her from the inside and she smiled.

  “Even your smile is sad, Lydia. Tell me what is hurting you tonight.”

  She sighed. “I don’t know. Dark memories of the past, I suppose. Thoughts of the future, which is not much brighter.”

  He was beside her now, leaning one shoulder against her column, close enough for her to feel the heat of his body. “Why not? What is it you want for your future that you cannot have?”

  “To be needed. To belong.”

  “Do you not have both here in the palace?”

  “Yes. Yes, you are right. I am just being—”

  “No, you are not. But you are not telling the entire truth, Lydia. You want to be needed. You feel worthless unless people value you for what you can do for them. You try to remain distant, but no one can help loving you
. And despite what you think, you are wonderfully able to love others. You want others to need you, but you refuse to need anyone else. Why?”

  “Because it never lasts. People leave.”

  “What people?”

  “Everyone. My parents. Before they even had a chance to know me, they discarded me. Samuel. Caesarion. And—” The words choked in her throat.

  “Who, Lydia? Who else?” He didn’t touch her, didn’t come any closer, but it felt as though he were inside her mind. “The one who drowned?”

  The breath rushed out of her lungs, and her body sagged against the stone.

  Simon’s words were a whisper in the night air. “Tell me of him. Please.”

  She pushed herself away from the column and crossed to a bench on the other side of the brazier, still close enough to keep warm.

  He joined her on the bench. “I know what it is to have lost, Lydia.” He stared into the fire. “There was someone—a woman—

  once.”

  Lydia held her breath, wanting to hear it, yet not wanting to.

  “I loved her. That love, it took my focus from the fight, the importance of our cause. She thought she could stand against Herod with only the strength of her convictions, and I was too distracted to see what was happening. When Herod came through Galilee years ago, she was cut down like nothing more than field grass.” His voice thickened, and he said no more.

  “And that was when you joined Herod, to work against him from within?” She kept her voice low, glancing to the shadows.

  “We needed someone who could get information. I volunteered. And I promised not to forget, not to be a fool again. That is why it is so hard . . .” But he left off and looked away.

  Lydia took a shaky breath. He had given her his story, his secrets. It was time for her own.

  “He was Cleopatra’s younger brother. His name was Ptolemy, of course. All of them carried the same name.” To speak his name seemed to release something in her heart. “I was abandoned as a baby in the palace, raised by the staff there. Ptolemy was five years older than I, but we were playmates. He was allowed to roam free until he was twelve and named coregent with Cleopatra. I followed him everywhere, and he never shooed me off.”

  “He sounds kind. Not what I would expect.”

  “I am not sure he was especially kind. But we did have fun together, and I loved him.”

  “What happened?”

  “By the time he was sixteen, he and Cleopatra were at odds, fighting over the throne. Julius Caesar came to Egypt and took her side, and after the war in Alexandria, Ptolemy escaped with his troops, planning to regroup and return.”

  She paused, as the story was wearing her out. But she would finish it.

  Simon seemed to sense she needed time and did not interrupt.

  “I followed them.”

  “The troops?”

  “Yes. I snuck onto the boat they were taking across the Nile. Halfway across the river, I showed myself to him, declared my undying loyalty.”

  “And you were—eleven years old?”

  She nodded, studying her hands twisting in her lap. “He was so angry. Told me that a warship was no place for a girl, that I would only cause problems.”

  “But I would wager you were no ordinary girl, even then.”

  “I was a fool, and it cost him his life.”

  Simon wrapped her restless hands in one of his own.

  “Something went wrong with the boat. I don’t know. But it sank. We were too far from shore. I could not swim. He tried to save me.” She broke free of Simon’s hand and covered her face, finding it wet with tears. “I thought we would both drown, but in the end, somehow, it was only him on the bottom of the Nile. His men dove and dove, but when they found him, it was far too late.”

  “Oh, Lydia.”

  Simon’s arm was around her shoulder now, and she hated herself for sinking into his embrace.

  “It was not your fault.”

  “I can still feel it sometimes, that feeling of drowning—of my chest so tight, without air, without hope.”

  “So you had no parents, and you had lost the closest thing to a brother you had found. You have told me of Samuel and of Caesarion. It seems you continued to create family around you—a father and a younger brother. And both of them were taken from you as well.”

  She did not have the strength to agree. But spelled out like that, it was a sad life, indeed.

  “And now others have grown to love you—you have found a sister in Mariamme and a brother in David, but you are too fearful to truly embrace either one, for fear you will again be abandoned or rejected.”

  She sighed again. “I suppose that is true.”

  “And me?”

  She tensed within his embrace. “You?”

  “If I have grown to love you, will you keep me at arm’s length as well?”

  She pulled away, studied his face. “You—I—we cannot be—”

  He pounded the bench with a fist. “I know this! I have thought of little else. It is not only our positions, it is my duty. To focus on the rebellion, to leave off thoughts of my own happiness.” He took up her hands in his own. “But I do not care, Lydia.” His voice had grown desperate. “I will leave the palace, take a job somewhere else, if it means—”

  “I cannot leave Mariamme. She needs me.”

  “I need you.”

  She pulled from his grasp and stood, shaking her head. “No, no, you only think that because I am the only person in the palace who likes you.”

  His eyes registered pain and he looked away. But then brought his attention back to her. “You speak the truth. I do not worry constantly what people think of me, as you do. I do not revolve my life around pleasing them, making them love me and need me. I am here for other reasons. And I suppose their dislike is well founded.”

  “No.” Lydia bent to kneel before him, regretting her harsh words. “No, you simply don’t let people know you. Everything you do comes from a place of integrity and passion. I love that about you.”

  “But you love your position with Mariamme more.”

  Did she? Did she truly want to live out her days in this palace, become an old woman serving an old queen with no family of her own? She thought of the baby, of Alexander’s soft skin, his sweet smell, and the feel of his warmth pressed to her chest.

  And what of her art? There would be little time for it in a life of service. Would she rather leave the palace and have the freedom to create in the way her heart longed?

  The ground grew cold and she stood, with Simon still seated in front of her.

  Did he sense the shift in her thoughts? Was it visible in her eyes?

  His lips parted and he rose slowly, until his forehead was leaning against her own.

  “No,” she said. “No, I do not love my position with Mariamme more.”

  It was all the encouragement he needed.

  His arm shot around her waist and pulled her in until they melted together. One hand was behind her head, tangled in her hair.

  They had kissed once in a courtyard in Jericho. Well, twice, really.

  Tonight’s kiss was nothing like those.

  Warm enough to set her pulse racing, deep enough to make promises, long enough to make her forget the past. She reveled in the sense of coming home that was Simon and let her heart open to the future and its breathtaking possibilities.

  She pulled away at last, laughing and glancing around. “Someone will see us.”

  He kissed her eyelids, her forehead. “I don’t care.” The words were muffled against her skin.

  They sat again in the dying light of the brazier and talked of his dream of a free Israel that would be their future, until it grew late and far too cold.

  He kissed her again before they parted, erasing all her doubt. It could not matter that she was lady’s maid to the queen and he was palace manager. If their positions kept them apart, they would simply walk away. Like he did for the palace and the orphans who lived with Jonah and Esther, S
imon protected and provided for everyone. She needed him more than she had needed anyone, but it did not frighten her. She belonged with Simon.

  She wandered slowly from the inner courtyard, through the palace corridors, to the front courtyard, barely noticing her surroundings. What were shadows and cold when her heart was warm and bright? She had not believed she could be so happy. Perhaps HaShem was pleased with her efforts after all.

  The scrape of sandal on stone arrested her attention in the main courtyard. A young boy had wandered through the palace arch. He caught sight of her and strode toward her.

  “A letter for the queen.” He waved a small scroll.

  She extended her hand. “I am her lady’s maid. I will take it.”

  He seemed reluctant at first, but she clucked her tongue. “Come now, it is cold. I will deliver it at once, if she is still awake.”

  He made his delivery and disappeared, and Lydia crossed to the stairs. Did the letter pertain to Cleopatra’s visit tomorrow? Perhaps she wrote to cancel. That would make the evening perfect.

  She tiptoed to Mariamme’s chamber and met Leodes at the door. He gave her a friendly wink and opened the door for her.

  The new mother was awake and bent over Alexander’s little bed. “Come in, Lydia.”

  “A message for you. Just arrived.”

  Mariamme frowned and took the scroll, glanced at the seal, then broke it open.

  Lydia turned to go.

  “Stay, Lydia. Perhaps it is about Cleopatra. I know you are concerned.”

  Lydia waited while Mariamme scanned the contents of the letter, but it did not appear to be good news of a cancellation. Instead, Mariamme’s face paled even in the dim lamplight, and when she set the letter aside, it was with a deep breath and a determined look.

  “Sit down, Lydia.” She indicated a chair. “I have some things to tell you.”

  Chapter 29

  Cleopatra Philopator, Queen of the Two Lands of Upper and Lower Egypt, was sick of Judea.

  After nearly a week traveling southward from Syria, where she had left Antony still fighting his precious Parthians, the landscape had grown wearisome and her patience stretched taut. She came to examine her holdings and find a way to expand. If only it had been to fulfill her long-held desire to kill Herod. But alas, Antony’s affections were too fickle to risk his anger over the death of a friend.