Agrippa's Daughter

by Fast, Howard

  On the other hand, there are several royal families connected to us by blood or marriage—but I will not force you into any position as a second or third wife.

  However, a most interesting thing has occurred—a matter I have refrained from conveying to you until now. It concerns Polemon, king of Cilicia, who came here to Tiberias with Anat Beradin, the wool merchant. Beradin controls the wool trade all the way eastward to Parthia, and he is the titular head of the Jewish community in Tarsus and almost as important and wealthy as the alabarch of Alexandria. You know of the increasing importance of Tiberias as a manufacturing center for the dyeing and weaving of woolen cloth. This trade in wool began under our father, who was a close friend of Beradin, and now Beradin has shown interest and affection for me and for our house, a thing none too common among these wealthy Pharisee merchants.

  Polemon himself, the king of Cilicia, is a heathen, but, as you know, his own city of Tarsus has a large and powerful Jewish population, as have Zephyrion and Taurus-Amanus, the other important cities of Cilicia. Polemon depends upon Jews for stewards, seneschals, and for officers in his army—as well as for direction in foreign trade, and there has been a good deal of intermarriage between the noble families of Cilicia and the Jewish families.

  Now I do not know whether you have ever looked upon Polemon, but he is a well-set, tall, healthy, and decently educated man in his middle forties; and he has looked upon you. He saw you several times, but first at the wedding feast after your marriage to Herod, and the most recent time was when he was passing through Chalcis. There it seems that out of respect for your grief, no celebration for him was made, but your seneschal took him to dinner in the palace, and before dinner he stood at a balcony looking down upon a little garden where you sat in your grief.

  He claims that he first lost his heart to you when he saw you four years ago at the wedding, and he says that his love is constant and increasing, so that he cannot eat or sleep or have any peace for desire of you.

  I put it to him that this made a strange kind of approach, seeing that he already had a wife. But he told me that she tired him and he was ready to put her aside, and that he had already spoken to what passes for the high priest at Tarsus in terms of a religious dissolution of his marriage. He asked me whether you would be badly affected if his wife were to die inadvertently. I replied that not only would you react poorly to this, but that it would only add flames to the talk that already circulates around you and myself and our house. I must say that he is unaffected by this talk.

  Beradin urges the marriage, for he sees it leading to a very considerable union of kingdoms to the north of Israel—either in favor of our house or controlled by our house. For myself, I am not ambitious, but such a marriage would mean that you could spend at least the best part of each year at Tiberias. Beradin is building a villa on the lake, not far from the city, and Polemon proposes to build for himself a small winter palace there, so that you need never be out of sight of the place you love so much. I admire this thoughtfulness.

  Berenice, to her brother, King Agrippa:

  I send this by postrider, that you may tell the king of Cilicia that all his hopes and aspirations are pointless and senseless. Oh, but I am sick to death of your aging men who dream of finding their youth in the crotch of a young woman! I know your Polemon, and I want no part of him—and inform him that he need not murder his wife for me. Tell him that I am dry and cold and that my seed is gone and used up, and that death goes with me wherever I go. It will not be too far from the truth either.

  Nor will I marry a heathen. I have no desire ever to marry again, but should it come about, I will marry only a Jew.

  Agrippa, King of Tiberias and Chalets, to his sister Berenice:

  I tell you, sister, that you misjudge Polemon. You misjudge his quality and you misjudge his love.

  When I brought to him the news that you would only marry a Jew, I thought that would be the end of it. But no—Polemon put off his departure for Tarsus and remained here, and after three days of brooding over the matter, he announced to me that he must become a Jew.

  Upon hearing this, I took council with Bendavid and Bensimon, who agreed that the wisest things to do would be to send word of what Polemon proposed to Vibius Marsus, the proconsul of Syria. That is, we could not regard this simply as a religious or even as a medical question—in terms of the proposed circumcision—when above all it becomes a political matter. I know that we foster the illusion that we are our own masters, yet when it comes to basic things, it is Rome that must decide whether a Jewish king should sit on the throne of Cilicia. However, it worked out well enough, for Vibius Marsus took a light view of the matter, saying that so far as he was concerned, Polemon could cut off his hand or his head as well as his foreskin—Rome being less concerned with the religion of its vassals than with their loyalty. It would seem that Polemon has proven his loyalty, for when Marsus charged his brother, Cheleth, with plotting against Rome, Polemon tried him and hanged him—that is, his brother Cheleth of course and not the proconsul. So Vibius Marsus put no barriers in our way.

  However, Anat Beradin implored me to make plain to Polemon what risks he faced—medically speaking, that is. It is one thing to be circumcised as an infant and it is something else entirely to undergo this in the middle years after the age of forty. At that age, it can be particularly painful and severe. There have been many cases of infection—some leading to death. In still other cases, the man undergoing the operation has bled to death. And in still other cases, the result of such circumcision in the later years has been impotence equal to that which accompanies gelding. There is no need to bore you with these details, but I do think you should realize what this man faced—as I tried to make him realize it.

  But no—no, nothing would give him pause.

  “At least go back to Tarsus and have the operation there,” I begged him, but he protested that there was no Jewish surgeon in Tarsus who would dare to circumcise him, for fear of reprisal his family might take. Well, you may believe, my sister, that I had some of the same forebodings, and no desire for him to die on my hands and leave me with a bloodfeud.

  When I set out to find a doctor, my fears were confirmed, for I discovered that no physician in Tiberias would operate on him. Again, I begged him to return to Tarsus, where at least he would be surrounded by his loved ones; but he only replied that his loved ones would seize such an opportunity to poison him and claim that he died of the circumcision. What choice had I? Could I cast him out?

  At last we found a doctor, but under curious circumstances. I was informed that a young man who had studied medicine in Athens and also in Ephesus under the great masters there, was staying with some relatives in Tiberias. These were of the House of Shlomo, a family of some consequence, with fishing rights here in the lake, and with twelve fishing vessels and a smokehouse at Dora, a fishing village to the north of Caesarea. They are a family of Israelites, apparently with no priestly or Levite blood, but very wealthy and influential with the Romans; for they have served as army chandlers for over a generation. They have over twenty retainers here in their house in Tiberias, and they are not a house that I desire to offend. I learned that the name of this physician was Shimeon Bengamaliel, out of the line of Hillel and three generations of Jewish physicians. Like the House of Shlomo, they have neither priestly nor noble blood and make no claim of descent, but they are as coolly proud and independent as if they were out of the direct line of David and Zadok combined.

  I go into this in such detail in order to demonstrate the lengths to which I went to satisfy Polemon—and so you may realize that I do not consider any of this to be a light matter. I sent for this Shimeon by royal messenger, but instead of his appearing as any sensible man would—having indicated that I awaited him—he sent me a message informing me that he awaited me in the House of Shlomo, and that I was entirely welcome there. I must say that since I have come into this throne built of twigs and this empty crown, I have endured insults in plenty, b
ut not one that I remember as gratuitous as this. What was I to do? What would you have done, my sister? Send soldiers to drag him forth and scourge him? But this would have turned against me, not only the House of Shlomo but every Pharisee house of wealth and distinction in Galilee—perhaps in Israel, if word got around. For only consider how the insult was couched—as a perfectly calm and reasonable invitation. Could I ignore it? Then I had this vexatious problem of Polemon on my hands again—and how to solve it? Summon him again and be insulted again? I saw no point in that.

  I discussed the matter with Anat Beradin, for these merchant families are thick as thieves, and this man Beradin appears to be incredibly well informed. Beradin agreed that this young physician should be our first choice. He explained that this man was out of the House of Hillel—which is a name we have known, but only to curse. That is because the priests are at great odds with this house, and Beradin claims that much they say of the house and of its founder, Hillel—who died about forty years ago—is false. I was taken aback to discover—again according to Beradin—that the doctrines of this house have penetrated to every corner of the earth, wherever Jews are, and that these same doctrines are known, discussed, and tossed about by the lowest Jews—bearers, and laborers, and peasants. How then that I remain so ignorant of even the tenor of this teaching? We are not scholars, but among the countless slanders hurled against us has never been that of ignorance. With you, when we were children, we spent endless dreary hours with the philosophers as well as the Law—page after page of Plato committed to memory, heaven help us, not to mention our endless hours with the Torah. Well, I put this to Beradin, who was in no way surprised, and who explained that these teachings of the House of Hillel were a Pharisee business and regarded as the prating of ignorance by those of noble blood. Quite naturally they would form no part of our education.

  At the same time, Beradin made plain to me how widely these strange teachings had penetrated among the people. He told me how the House of Hillel sent a son of each generation to study with the finest Greek physicians and how this son would train others to the profession here in Israel. Without going into the complexities of this, let me say that Beradin felt that since Shimeon Bengamaliel was here in Tiberias, only he must perform the operation—so that not only would Polemon become Jewish, but in the most blessed fashion.

  This still left his insult to the crown.

  “Turn it on its head,” Beradin told me. “At long last, let it be said that a royal member of the House of Herod went of his own will to speak with a member of the House of Hillel. You have no idea what the effect of this will be.”

  I did not leap with joy at the suggestion, and I pointed out to Beradin that this kind of consorting with every dubious element, whether they called themselves Pharisees or Hillelites, could only lose me support among the noble families. It was his opinion, however, that I had far less support from that quarter than I imagined.

  “It is not my place to advise you, Agrippa Benagrippa,” he said to me, speaking out arrogantly enough, for he is one of those little men who have come up in the world by their own force of character, and he esteems himself well indeed. “You have advisers. But simply let me say that they have not kept you well informed. There are new currents in Israel—and many a great family today that carries no drop of noble or priestly blood. They are not to be ignored, for in all truth they outnumber your noble families. Your nobility clings to its landed estates and traces its lineage over and over and piles up its little hoard of gold pieces and dreams of the old Hasmonean days—but believe me, young man, those days are gone forever and will never return. There is a new Jew today. He has sailed his ships everywhere in the world. He has driven his camel caravans across desert and mountain. He buys silk from the Chinese and cotton from the Ganges people; he trades both for the tin in Cornwall, and that he ships to Egypt, where he buys wheat to be unloaded at the mouth of the River Tiber. Your noble families still venerate the Temple and its priesthood above all else, but there are synagogues in every city of the world, and to the Jews who worship in these synagogues the Temple is only a word or a dream, but the doctrine of Hillel is very real indeed. In these communities, they no longer ask whether a man is of Israelite or Levite blood, whether he is out of the House of David or the House of Zadok, whether he has a fifth cousin who is a blood Kohan—no, they ask little and they care less. A man is what the power and wealth of his house makes him—and many such could buy and sell your tetrarchate here in Galilee. So put less stock in these so-called ‘noblemen’ who give their petty support to your house, and think about what is new in the world.”

  I considered what he said. Believe me, sister, it is no easy matter to sort out this advice from that advice and to make sense of two sage pieces of counsel, each of them opposed to the other. But the upshot of this thing was that I decided to swallow my pride and go to speak with this Shimeon Bengamaliel. I tell you in all detail what followed then: and I tell it to you bluntly and plainly:

  I went alone to the House of Shlomo—that is, alone except for my armor-bearer, who is one of those oversized Galilean hulks, with a neck as thick as my waist and a little bit of brains in his fists. His name is Adam Benur, and he is a holy terror in an argument, and as large and ugly as he is, less of an attention-gatherer than a troop of armed guards. The House of Shlomo is outside of the city walls, one of those large villas built directly on the lake, with a stepped terrace down to the lake, built of a pink stone fetched here all the way from Megiddo. Believe me, they do themselves well, these fishermen. I was greeted by the head of the house, Gideon Benharmish—they have gone back to the old Hebrew names, these newly rich Israelites—a tall, soft-spoken man in his fifties, and well-mannered for a merchant. Servants all over the place. The master, his wife, his relatives—no lack of respect, believe me—bowing and scraping and honored beyond their ability to express. Of course, they would never have had the courage to demand that I come there. That was the doing of this Shimeon, who is only a few years older than I, certainly. They greeted even my horse as if it was of royal blood, and took big Adam off to sit in the kitchen and fill his belly, an honored guest on his own terms.

  Shimeon himself stood somewhat aloof, back and away from the immediate family—so that I was there for a while before they presented him to me. He is a big man, a full head taller than I am, broad, dark-eyed, with a close-cropped black beard. He was dressed very simply but presentably in sandals, the latest style of white linen trousers, cut just below the knee, and a sleeveless coat of white linen that revealed a pair of large and muscular arms, too large and muscular, it appeared to me, for a physician and a scholar. Like the stricter Pharisees, he wore no ornaments or colors, but he is no ascetic. At the magnificent table they spread, he ate as well as any and better than most.

  He bowed to me and did me honor, at which I expressed surprise, and then he explained, “I honor the House of Mattathias. I am told that your sister puts herself forward as a Hasmonean.”

  “We have every right to do so,” I said, “by the line of my great-grandmother Mariamne, who was herself the granddaughter of Hyrcanus, and thus out of the true Maccabee blood and line.”

  He smiled at my protestations, as if they amused him, and said that here in the House of Shlomo, as in his own house, they had too much work to do to bother about their pedigrees. But some of this attitude is merely bragging, for I am given to understand that he is the grandson of the sage Hillel, an immigrant from Babylon who was the founder of his house, and as proud as a peacock of this short line and descent. In any case, he was pleasant enough, and I think we became friends of a sort. I did not have to explain concerning the slanders that are circulated about us. He had heard them, and he was contemptuous of people who slander others. Then I explained to him the circumstances of Polemon’s relationship to you.

  “So he desires to become a Jew,” Shimeon said.

  “Exactly. We need a surgeon of skill and importance. Polemon can pay whatever fee you ask.”
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br />   “Has it never occurred to Polemon that there’s more to being a Jew than having one’s foreskin chopped off?”

  “Come, come,” I reminded him. “Every day, thousands of infants are born into this world, and they become Jews willy-nilly, simply by having their foreskins chopped, as you put it. Polemon is a king. Surely, he can become Jewish by doing the same thing at great cost of pain and risk.”

  “That’s a hard argument to meet,” Shimeon nodded, smiling.

  “It appears to amuse you.”

  “It does. From what you have told me, Queen Berenice has no desire to marry this Polemon.”

  “She can be persuaded.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you why. Either you will do the operation—or we shall find another.”

  “Oh, I will do it,” Shimeon said. “Have no fear of that. Even if it’s a sort of lopsided Jew that I am making, I will do the making. There’s supposed to be some virtue in it, although why there should be at the news of one more Jew in this sorry world is more than I pretend to understand. How old are you, Lord Agrippa?”

  I was pleased that he used “Adon” as a title for me. Too many did not. Nor was he being cynical. I could see that he liked me.

  “Twenty-one years,” I answered.

  “Ah. That is young, isn’t it? But I suppose one becomes a king when one does, not by choice or training.”

  “I never thought of it that way. But you’re right.”

  “You know,” he said, “I will be creating another Jewish king with this operation. Don’t you mind?”

  “Not at all,” I shrugged.

  “Your great-grandfather—no, even your father would have seen me in hell before I was prompted to create royal Jews.”

  “I am afraid I lack the lusts of either the Herods or the Hasmoneans,” I shrugged. “Being king is not something that delights me. I suppose I have small character and little ambition.”