“How light-footed Salome was!” said the ladies afterward. My mother was pleased with herself and with me, and I felt a deep glow.
Now, the day before the full moon, Herodias invited her friends again for a new performance. This time we would act out the myth of Europa, a beautiful princess kidnapped by the god Zeus. Zeus transformed himself into a bull in a meadow at the edge of the sea, where Europa was playing. The princess was so charmed by this handsome, gentle animal that she climbed up on his back. At once he trotted into the waves with her—and the hapless maiden was never seen again.
As we practiced, Herodias noticed that Gundi and I, playing the two halves of the bull, were the weak part of this performance. My mother recited her lines with great feeling as she acted out the part of Europa. Two slaves rippled long, blue-green scarves along the ground in a good imitation of waves. But Gundi and I had a terrible time learning to move together as one animal inside our hide and horns. Especially with Herodias perched on the back.
“Alas!” cried Herodias, clinging to the hide.
Inside the bull, Gundi muttered, “I didn’t mind so much playing the lord of the underworld. But the rear end of a bull—!”
On the afternoon of the performance, Gundi and I managed all right. Herodias sat gracefully on the back of the “bull,” real-looking fear and sorrow on her expressive face. (I couldn’t see, of course, but the guests complimented her on this afterward.) She spoke the last lines, the chorus of servants exclaimed, “Alas!” and the ladies applauded. As Herodias slipped from the hide, Gundi sighed with relief. “Oh, my aching bones.”
“Dear friends,” I heard my mother say to the guests in a still sorrowful voice, “Europa’s story is not only a myth. Before long, I will indeed be borne across the sea by a mighty one.”
What? What was she talking about? I squirmed to find a gap in the hide and peer out.
Herodias paused, posing with her left hand to her heart. I noticed a new gold ring, set with a large emerald, on her third finger. “I am leaving Herod Junior and marrying Herod Antipas. In a few days I will be the wife of the Tetrarch of Galilee and Perea.” To a question from one of her friends she answered, “Yes, Salome will come with me.”
Through the gap in the hide I cried out, “No!” My mother laughed a musical laugh, signaling not to take me seriously. The ladies laughed, too, maybe thinking that was a planned comic ending. I felt ashamed and confused. Gundi and I scuttled through the colonnade and shrugged off the hide. Gundi muttered, “I could have told you.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” I demanded. Before I even knew how angry I was, I slapped her face. Gundi staggered against a column. I hated myself, and I wanted to run away. At the same time, I didn’t want to let anyone, especially my mother, know how upset I was.
Now that the play was over, the servants were bringing in refreshments, and the garden filled with chatter. I sat down glumly in a corner, leaning against the mosaic of the dancing maenad. The palm of my hand still stung from slapping Gundi.
One of the guests, the mother of a girl in my class at the Temple, spoke to me kindly. “Just think, Salome,” she said. “In Galilee, you’ll be a princess.”
“Not really a princess, any more than Herodias will be a queen,” I said. “Uncle Antipas is only a tetrarch, the ruler of a quarter of a kingdom.”
The woman looked shocked at my rudeness, but she couldn’t have been more shocked than I was to hear my own rude words. My mother heard me, too, and ordered me to my room.
That evening just before dinner, a messenger delivered a letter to Herodias from my father. He wrote from the house of Secundus, a Forum crony of his. She read the waxed tablet with her lip curled. “News travels quickly in Rome. I wonder which of my dear friends—or perhaps it was more than one?—informed Junior?” She handed the tablet to me. “Read; this is how much your father values his daughter.”
It had crossed my mind that my father might want to keep me with him in Rome, and it would be his right to do so. But his letter ordered Herodias to remove herself and her belongings, “including the girl Salome,” from his house. He’d already divorced Herodias, and he allowed her exactly one day, beginning at sunrise tomorrow, to accomplish the move.
Junior went on sarcastically, I thank my former wife for her decision. Now I’ll never have to put up with her good-for-nothing brother Agrippa again. And I’m free to marry a younger woman who will bear me sons. By the way, don’t expect to get your dowry back. I’ve already spent it.
Although I didn’t want to stay with my father, still, his words were a slap in the face to me as well as Herodias. During the meal I picked at the food while my mother talked on and on. Some of the time she spoke to me, and some of the time she addressed her remarks to the wall beside us, to a portrait of my father.
“Keep my dowry, then! Do you think I’ll miss it? Antipas’s coffers are overflowing with gold, and he denies me nothing!” She flashed her emerald ring at the portrait. “Or perhaps you think I mind leaving your house.” She gave a scornful laugh and turned to me. “The house Antipas keeps in Rome is twice this size and in a better neighborhood. Wait till you see it!”
I said nothing, but Herodias talked on, justifying herself.
“What you have to understand is that I was only thirteen when they married me off to my uncle Junior. I had no choice in the matter.” Yes, I knew that her grandfather, King Herod the Great of Judea, had commanded the marriage.
I also knew that my great-grandfather the king was not a man to argue with. Gundi used to tell me some terrifying stories about him, always ending with something like, “And if you don’t stay in bed and go right to sleep, King Herod will grab you and lock you up in his dungeon.”
I finally grew old enough to realize that the king of Judea, even if he were still alive, would probably not travel across the Mediterranean Sea to punish a naughty little girl. But from what everyone said, he was quick to torture or kill anyone who crossed him. Before he betrothed Herodias to Junior, he’d killed Aristobulus, Herodias’s father. He’d also killed her grandmother Mariamne (his favorite wife!) and another of his sons, Alexander.
But King Herod had a sentimental streak, it seemed. He decided he’d been tricked into killing his son Aristobulus, and he was so sorry that he cried. He decided to make up for his mistake by arranging a fine marriage for his orphaned granddaughter Herodias. So my mother, a girl younger than I was now, became the bride of one of her father’s half brothers, Herod Junior of Rome. Everyone agreed this match was a great honor for Herodias, because at that time, Junior was second in line to succeed his father as king of Greater Judea. With a little luck, the first heir, Antipater, would not live too long, and Junior would become King Herod II.
Tonight, listening to Herodias although I pretended not to, I gathered a new idea about why she’d been discontent with my father. Since I was a young child, it had seemed obvious to me that my mother had a right to be unhappy with her marriage. When my father was home, which wasn’t often, he was cold and critical. And he was so much older than his niece-wife.
But now I understood her real complaint. It wasn’t only my father who’d been deeply disappointed when old King Herod had changed his mind about the succession. As Herod Junior’s wife, Herodias had expected to become queen of Greater Judea.
Before his death, Herod had accused Antipater of plotting against him and had him executed. He didn’t execute my father, but he left him out of his final will entirely. Instead, Herod gave the best half of his kingdom, Judea and Samaria, to another son, Archelaus. The other half was divided between Antipas and Philip. Antipas received a quarter of the original kingdom, Galilee and Perea, while Philip received the poorest section, Gaulanitis.
None of the brothers was completely happy with this arrangement, but obviously Junior had the most to be unhappy about. He complained to his friends at the court of the Emperor Augustus, who had the final authority to confirm or discard the will of a client king. But it turned out that A
rchelaus, Antipas, and Philip had more powerful friends at court. So Herodias’s husband would not become ruler of Greater Judea or of anything else except the estates in eastern Anatolia that he already owned. And Herodias would not become queen.
“If I had been old Herod’s son,” said Herodias, “I would have spent more time at my father’s court in Judea and less time at the chariot races.”
As the slaves cleared the platters from the dinner table, the doorkeeper appeared. Someone was outside: a litter from the Temple of Diana, an escort for Miss Salome.
FOUR
CALLED BY THE GODDESS?
I was so surprised that I said my first words of the evening, “For me?”
“Oh!—it’s the full moon,” said Herodias. “I forgot; I told the priestess that you could sleep at the Temple overnight to see if the goddess would give a sign. Well, I suppose you might as well go.”
“I don’t want to,” I said. At that moment, I would have argued about anything Herodias told me to do.
“There’s no point in offending the Temple, Salome.” My mother spoke sharply, but then she went on in a persuasive tone, “It’s only one night, sweet girl. Just make sure that in the morning, you tell the priestess that the goddess gave no sign. Don’t tell her any dream of yours, even something trifling like eating honey cakes. The priestess of Diana is clever, and you don’t want to give her an excuse to say you have a calling. She’d be delighted to have a Herod in the cult.”
So I went with the escort, sullenly. A short while later, I spread my pallet out in the darkened sanctuary of the Temple. I didn’t fall asleep right away, though. There was a knot of anger in my chest. I was angry at Antipas for taking my mother, and I was angry at my father for treating me as an unwanted child.
But most of all, I was angry at my mother. She was the one who’d truly betrayed me. She’d tricked me into believing that we were best friends. What she really cared about was being a queen, or at least living like one.
A few days ago, I remembered, Antipas had taken her to the seagoing port of Puteoli to inspect the ship that would carry him to Judea. “Antipas is having the Ceres completely refitted!” she’d reported to me. “It’ll be a floating palace.” I’d wondered why she was so enthusiastic about the ship, and now I knew: it would be her floating palace. Queen Herodias.
Lying alone in the Temple, I missed the soothing sound of Gundi’s breathing. She’d slept in the same room with me since I was a baby. I turned on my back and gazed up at the great statue of Diana. The moon, sacred to the goddess, shone through the columns of the portico and into the sanctuary. Diana, dressed in a short tunic, was striding forward. With one hand she reached toward the quiver on her back for an arrow, while the other hand held her bow in a relaxed grip. The hint of a smile softened her noble face.
Such a powerful, free being, this goddess. Suppose she did want me to serve her? A daring thought came to me, just the opposite of what my mother had instructed. If I wanted to serve Diana and stay in Rome, I could. I could say in the morning that the goddess had summoned me. Who would know?
Somehow this thought led to a new view of Herodias, as if I were standing on top of the roof and looking down at a small figure. Until now, she’d filled up the foreground of my life so that I couldn’t see her whole. I’d been like a little child who sees only her nurse’s skirt and feet.
It was a shock, like jumping from the steam room at the baths into the cold pool. Wildly mixed feelings swirled around in my head. I was thrilled with my new sense of power. But I also felt sad and anxious; shouldn’t I protect that small Herodias, who didn’t even know how weak she was?
Later I fell asleep, dreaming that I knelt before the statue of Diana. My chest hurt with a terrible longing. Help me, I begged her.
Gazing at me tenderly, Diana dropped her hand from the quiver and reached out. I took her hand, which was not stone cold, but warm and strong. I climbed up beside her—and we strode forward together.
In the morning I remembered the dream. The goddess had favored me, Salome! For a moment I lay basking in the memory.
Then my daring thought of last night returned, only now it seemed like something I could really choose to do. I felt dizzy with excitement.
Maybe it didn’t matter that Herodias had gone off on her own path. My path opened up before me, and it didn’t depend on Herodias. I was frightened but delighted, as if I were standing on the roof of the Temple—and realized that I had wings.
I told my dream to the priestess, stammering as I saw how deeply she was moved. Her eyes shone wetly. “Salome, my dear,” she said, “you have the true calling. You will follow me as priestess of this Temple. We will make the arrangements with your family.”
So I had done it. I would not go to Judea with Herodias and Antipas as they planned. Yes, I had chosen the shape of my life. Why was I terrified? This was what I wanted: to move into the Temple compound, to devote myself to dancing and performing the sacred rites. At the next feast day of Diana, I would make the vows of a priestess.
How could I be fearful when the goddess was leading me? Guiltily I remembered Gundi and my promise to her, but the priestess reassured me: I could bring a personal slave with me to the Temple. Entering the service of Diana was like entering into a marriage, and my family would furnish a dowry.
And so I thought it was settled, and my fears faded. At home, I found Herodias supervising the slaves as they packed trunks. She hardly listened to my breathless announcement. But then, taking in what I’d said, she turned on me.
“What is the matter with you?” Herodias shook me by the shoulders. “I thought I made it plain that I was sending you to the Temple only to go through the motions. Why did you tell the priestess that dream? Why didn’t you at least talk to me first?”
“It—it was a dream from the goddess,” I stammered. I knew my mother wasn’t pious—either about the Greek and Roman gods or about the Jewish faith—but I was shocked that my dream seemed to mean nothing to her. “Diana chose me for her own.”
Herodias made a scornful noise. “The priestess put the idea for that dream into your head, you silly girl. Didn’t I warn you? And what an old-fashioned idea.” She laughed, a musical sound. “No one really believes in Diana anymore.”
For a moment I doubted myself, but then I felt angry that Herodias wouldn’t honor my dream. My dream, not a dream that the priestess had slipped into my head. “The goddess has called me,” I said in a loud voice, “and I must join the Temple.”
“Salome.” Calming herself, Herodias pulled me down beside her on a chest. “You don’t understand what you want to throw away. Perhaps for another girl in your class, it would be an honor to take the vows at the Temple. But you are something more, much more, than a Roman girl of good family. You are a Herod, of the ruling family of the Jews.”
I wouldn’t look at her. “Diana herself called me to walk with her,” I said.
“In fact, you are of royal blood, of a line of Jewish rulers even older than the Herods. Through your great-grandmother Mariamne, you are descended from Queen Salome Alexandra of the proud Hasmonean dynasty.”
Of royal blood…Perhaps if my mother had spoken these words before Uncle Antipas came to Rome, I would have been thrilled. But now I was sure she was bringing up my royal blood only to get me to go along quietly. Twisting a strand of my hair, I stared blankly at the pile of colored silks on the couch.
“Stop that!” Herodias slapped at my fingers. “Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, Herodias,” I said.
Giving a deep sigh, Herodias changed her tack. “Don’t talk about leaving me.” She sounded as if her heart would break. “Salome, you’re my dearest friend. How could I possibly travel to the ends of the earth without you?” She laid her hand on the side of my face. “My sweet girl! Men are a necessary evil, but my own…”
Herodias, for all her beauty and charm, needed me more than anyone else! I melted like a lump of butter in the sun. Herodias picked up my hand,
and it seemed that she was displacing Diana’s hand. Last night’s dream, so real at the moment I awoke, turned pale and thin. And I was relieved, to tell the truth.
On the way to the baths that afternoon, I told Gundi about my dream of Diana and my plan to take my old nurse to the Temple with me. I thought Gundi would be grateful that I’d remembered her wish. But my main point was how much my mother loved me, so much that she’d struggled with the goddess for me.
Gundi, however, had a different view. “I could have told you they wouldn’t let you do that.” She sniffed. “I heard them talking, before she announced the divorce.” By “them” Gundi meant my mother and Antipas. They’d been discussing how my father would react to his wife’s leaving him for his half brother.
According to Gundi, Antipas had asked my mother, “Will Junior let her go?” (Gundi imitated the Tetrarch’s deep, smooth voice, with her northern barbarian accent on top of it—it would have been funny, except for what she was saying.) “Sometimes,” Antipas told Herodias, “I don’t believe he thinks of anything but the chariot races. But he must know that a bride’s worth many times the value of her dowry as a bond in a political alliance.”
“No, he’s hopeless,” Herodias had said. “It’s better that we don’t say anything about Salome. It would be just like Junior to insist on keeping her for spite.”
It made me sick to imagine my mother talking about me that way to her lover. “Shut your mouth, barbarian drudge.” I almost slapped her again, but then I remembered how bad I’d felt the last time.
Later, floating in the warm pool, I told myself that Gundi was making it up. I was no longer a little child, to be frightened by her stories about the evil Herods.
At the wedding, Herodias was radiant in the blond wig she wore on special occasions. There were many important guests to see how the fair hair set off her wide dark eyes. The marriage of Herodias to Antipas was a big social event in Rome, with Roman nobles and foreign dignitaries as well as Antipas’s own courtiers among the guests.
Salome Page 3