At the wedding banquet, I was seated at a table for older children. I didn’t know any of them, and I wasn’t in a mood to make friends. Anyway, we were leaving for Judea in a few days. I slumped on my dining couch, fingering the gold bracelet that the happy couple had given me. Its shape, a snake with two heads and no tail, was supposed to mean long life. To me, it looked more like an image of my mother and stepfather.
FIVE
HOW SHALL I LIVE?
The first day of the voyage, leaning over the side to watch the coastline slide by, I unthinkingly twisted the gold bracelet on my wrist. This bracelet Antipas and Herodias had given me was finely wrought, the most costly piece of jewelry I’d ever owned. I shouldn’t have been wearing it on an ordinary day, I suppose.
I swear I didn’t know the bracelet was falling off until the instant it slid over my knuckles. Before I could even grab for it, it flashed through the air and disappeared, hidden by the glare on the water. At first I was horrified. Herodias and Antipas would be so angry.
Then I thought, I’m the one who’s angry. I’m stuck on this ship so I can’t even get away from being ignored. I have to sit here and watch Herodias and her Bull, like watching a very boring and annoying play called The Happy Couple. Why can’t Herodias think about me for a change instead of gazing into that man’s eyes as if only the two of them were on board?
I was angrier than I’d realized. I thought, Let the bracelet be a sacrifice to Poseidon, god of the sea. Maybe he’ll send a storm to wreck our ship.
No—no—no! “Lord of the sea”—I hastily made a substitute petition—“accept my offering and bring our ship safely to Caesarea.”
By the second day, I felt so restless I almost wished for a shipwreck again. “If only I could go to the baths and swim,” I complained to Gundi. “If only I could be at the Temple of Diana for a few hours, dancing…If only I could have stayed at the Temple forever!”
“Past is past,” said Gundi briskly. “Forget about Diana. Aphrodite will be your protector now.” Every night Gundi said charms over me, and she claimed that Antipas’s courtiers could hardly take their eyes off me. With meaningful glances at my newly curved body, she reminded me that Aphrodite was supposed to have been born from the sea.
I’d noticed the men stealing glances at me, but I thought they were probably wondering how I could be so awkward. My body was indeed changing, but the main result seemed to be that I was even clumsier. Being at sea didn’t help, either. The ship plunged down into the troughs of the waves and up over the crests; it wallowed from side to side; it rocked back and forth.
I suppose Herodias did think of me a little, because she came up with an idea to keep me occupied during the voyage. On the third day aboard the Ceres, she proposed that Leander should give me lessons to improve my Greek. “My secretary?” said Antipas with a frown at me. “Leander is a highly educated philosophy scholar. I can hardly order him to work as a peda-gogue, tutoring a young girl.”
Herodias glanced at him from under her eyelashes. “Oh,” she said. “My prince, I beg your pardon. I thought you could order anyone to do…anything you wanted.” She gave one of her mischievous giggles. “But not with our Socrates, I guess.”
Herodias had her way. Beginning on the bright, brisk April day that we left Syracuse, Leander met with me every fair afternoon. Gundi, of course, sat in on my lessons as chaperone.
I was embarrassed at first that Leander was forced to tutor me. But he was patient and polite—I gathered that he felt rather sorry for me. At the end of the first lesson, I asked him to show me which direction Rome lay in. He explained how to find northwest from the position of the sun or stars.
“And your city, Alexandria?” I asked. “What direction is Alexandria?”
Leander smiled wistfully. “Ah, Alexandria. My city lies southeast—exactly the opposite direction.”
The Ceres wallowed through the waves day by day, and each afternoon the three of us met in the shelter of the striped mainsail. Gundi always brought wool and a spindle to spin thread. She hummed a spinning song to herself, even while Leander was declaiming poetry.
After a few days, Leander and I got into the habit of playing a game of checkers after the lesson. Gundi spun her thread as always and gave advice (mostly bad) on moves. The simple game didn’t take much concentration, and we chatted as we played. I found out about his father’s last request: it had to do with Leander’s three sisters. They were depending on him to send home money for their dowries.
If it weren’t for his mother and sisters, Leander would have stayed in Alexandria to continue his philosophy studies. But after his father died suddenly last fall and his business was sold to pay debts, it was up to Leander to provide for the family. Just as he was wondering how to do that, the Tetrarch of Galilee had stopped in Alexandria on his way to Rome.
Leander had heard that Antipas was looking for a new secretary and that the Tetrarch of Galilee paid well—very well. So Leander had joined Antipas’s court and come to Rome.
“It doesn’t seem fitting for a philosopher to work as a secretary,” I said.
Leander gave me a wry smile. “I thought there would be…compensations. I imagined that with Prince Antipas as my patron, I’d have the chance to visit some fine private libraries. I’d read rare books and talk with learned scholars.”
Most of the times I’d seen him, Leander had been moping around our atrium while Antipas visited Herodias. “What does a secretary actually do?” I asked. “Do you write letters?”
Leander nodded. “Mainly letters, mainly to Chuza, the Tetrarch’s steward in Galilee. Also, the Tetrarch has me take notes on all his business and political dealings.” He shrugged. “I can’t object; I knew I’d be doing that kind of work for Prince Antipas. It’s only that I thought the company would be rather different.”
I asked what he meant, “different.” Leander looked embarrassed as he explained. “You see, the Jews I know in Alexandria belong to the school of the philosopher Philo. Even though I don’t share their faith, I respect their devotion to their Law. They are true seekers of the path of virtue, men with noble minds.”
“So you expected Antipas and his court to be like Philo and his school?” I asked.
“I suppose I did.” Leander’s face reddened. “At least a little.”
I felt sorry for him, making such a foolish mistake. Antipas, a man with a noble mind!
We were a week into the voyage before Leander told me what he hated most about serving the Tetrarch. It was taking dictation from Antipas while he composed his journal entries. “The Tetrarch fancies himself a philosopher-prince,” said Leander with a pained expression. “That’s why he hired me instead of an ordinary scribe—he wanted a secretary who understood Deep Thoughts.”
“Antipas has Deep Thoughts?” I asked in amazement. “What are they like?”
“Drivel,” groaned Leander.
Day followed day, sometimes so bright that my eyes ached from the glare, sometimes so stormy that everyone but the sailors stayed in the cabins. At night I often lay awake, turning restlessly and making up stories for myself. My favorite was a story that began, What if, through no fault of mine, our ship was wrecked? And what if Leander and I were the only survivors?
I shivered at my own daring. I had to keep reassuring myself that no one could know my private stories. I imagined Leander and me lounging on the shore of our private island. All alone with no chaperone, no mother or stepfather, no rules about whom to marry. We’d recite Greek poetry to each other, and our eyes would meet, and then our lips, and…
Somehow, even though it was my made-up story, drowned bodies began washing up on the imaginary beach. What a monster I was, to wish for a shipwreck! Gundi didn’t deserve to die, and neither did the crew. I didn’t really want even Herodias and Antipas to drown. Squirming into a fresh position on my bed, I started the story over again without killing anyone: What if the goddess Aphrodite magically transported Leander and me to an undiscovered island?
The one thing I looked forward to on the Ceres was my Greek lesson. I was always taken aback, though, that the Leander who taught me Greek wasn’t the Leander of my dreams. He looked like the dream Leander, with curly hair hanging over his forehead and deep-set hazel eyes. But the real Leander, instead of murmuring in my ear, kept correcting my pronunciation.
The day before we stopped at Crete for fresh water, Herodias finally seemed to remember me. She came up to me that overcast morning as I stood at the ship’s railing. I was still angry but almost ready to make up, if Herodias seemed really sorry.
“The captain says the sea can be rough in April,” remarked Herodias, “but so far the sailing hasn’t been bad.”
I gazed steadily in the direction of Rome. The gray-green sea stretched in every direction, but I could tell northwest by the position of the sun, only half hidden by clouds.
“And dolphins are following the ship,” continued Herodias. “That’s supposed to be lucky.”
“I’d feel lucky,” I said, “if we were on our way to Rome and the Temple of Diana.” Didn’t she realize that she owed me an apology? The wind blew a strand of hair across my face, and I caught it and twined it in my fingers.
Herodias made an impatient noise. “If you’re so devoted to the goddess, you can worship her just as well in Tiberias as in Rome. I’m sure they have shrines to Diana in Tiberias. Or if they don’t, Antipas will build one.”
“What good will that do me?” I asked, still staring across the sea. “I won’t be staying in Tiberias for long.” In a sharper voice I added, “I’ll be married off as the glue in some political alliance.”
“Oh, Salome. My own child.” I was startled by the heartfelt tone in Herodias’s voice. “My little one, this is our fate. You have to understand that a woman must marry, and a woman of a royal family must marry to advance the fortunes of the dynasty.”
I felt a brief surge of pity for the child-bride Herodias, married off to my cold, neglectful father. Then my anger at her returned, and I answered, “Oh, I thought that some women—at least, one—married to advance their own fortunes.”
Pulling back from me, Herodias laughed the light, musical laugh that she used for ridicule. “My, what a sulk we’re in. No one’s making you marry right this minute. Meanwhile, you can still enjoy your daydreams about the handsome Greek secretary. But try to be more discreet.”
My face burned with shame. How could she know my secret thoughts about Leander? How dare she mention them?
“But my dear chick,” she went on, “I would never consent to betroth you to anyone distasteful. I pledge before Diana, my precious daughter will not suffer the same fate that I did.”
That was the last straw, swearing by Diana. “What a mighty pledge!” I said. “Only the other day, you told me no one believed in Diana anymore.”
I waited for her to deny it, but Herodias merely shrugged and walked away.
Shortly after we left Crete, something happened to take my mind off my own fate. Simon, the youngest of the Tetrarch’s courtiers, disappeared.
I found out about this early on a foggy morning, when Antipas called the passengers together at the stern of the ship. According to the guards, he explained, Simon had stayed up late the night before, drinking wine and throwing dice with the captain of the guards. Afterward, he must have stumbled on his way to bed and fallen overboard, unnoticed by the sailors on watch.
That’s strange, I thought. It didn’t seem like Simon to drink and gamble with the captain of the guards. That wasn’t the way to advance his career. I glanced around the group to see if any of the others seemed surprised.
The expressions of Antipas’s courtiers and their servants were as blank as the scene around the ship. The fog this morning was so thick and chill and the sea so calm that the Ceres hardly appeared to move. The ship seemed to float on the fog, rather than on the water. I wondered if it was like this on the river Styx, the stream that separated the land of the living from the land of the dead.
Antipas gave a long, flowery speech about what a talented, delightful young man Simon had been, with a bright future ahead of him. Antipas would never forgive himself, he said, for his untimely death. Then Antipas pronounced the prayers for the departed. He dropped into the sea two silver denarii, the coins that ordinarily would have been placed on Simon’s eyes so he could pay for the ferry over the Styx. Then Antipas said, “I must retire to grieve and compose a letter of condolence to Simon’s mother.”
That afternoon Leander was very quiet, and he seemed to have a hard time paying attention to the lesson. When I recited an ode for him, he didn’t even notice that I’d finished at first. Then he pulled his gaze back from the horizon and said absently, “Well done, Miss Salome. You had the accent and the feeling there.”
“It’s a beautiful poem,” I said, puzzled by his praise. I might have had the feeling, but I knew my accent still wasn’t right.
“Yes, the words are beautiful.” He paused, then burst out, “Beauty isn’t enough, is it? What about justice?”
On a hunch, I asked the question on my mind. “Do you know what happened to Simon?”
Leander looked alarmed. He glanced around to see if anyone was listening, but the only one within earshot was Gundi. My chaperone sat dozing on a coil of rope with her mouth open, her scarf pulled forward to shade her eyes.
In a low voice Leander answered, “The servants are whispering that Simon found too much favor with Sejanus, the Emperor’s regent. That Simon was talked about as a rival for the throne of Galilee and Perea.”
Foolish Simon? Who would imagine that he could rule an apartment block, let alone a tetrarchy? My face must have showed my surprise, because Leander said, “Exactly—Simon didn’t have the wits to rule a henhouse. But he wouldn’t be the first ruler without any qualifications. Maybe Sejanus thought he’d be easier to control than Antipas.”
I thought of something else. “But Simon is—was—the Tetrarch’s nephew. At least, his half sister’s son.”
“Yes,” said Leander in a flat tone. “I suppose Simon—and his mother, who sent him on this trip—thought his kinship would keep him safe.”
The air was clear this afternoon, but I still felt in a fog. “Maybe the servants are wrong about what happened.”
Leander started to speak, then stopped and shook his head.
One afternoon several days later, Leander remarked, “They say we’ll sight the coast of Judea tomorrow or perhaps the next day.”
So the voyage was almost over, and soon these lessons would be ended. I studied Leander’s expression to see if he seemed sorry. But he launched briskly into a comparison of different poetic styles.
After the lesson, though, while we were playing checkers, he said in a low tone, “Do you ever wonder about the question, How shall I live?” I was surprised, and before I could answer, he laughed nervously. “Forgive me; that was an idle question. Girls don’t study philosophy.”
I felt a little insulted. “I could wonder, but what good would it do me?” I snapped. “I can’t choose how to live. They’ll make me marry some disgusting old goat.” I dropped my gaze to the checkerboard.
“Miss Salome,” said Gundi without taking her eyes off her spindle, “I don’t think this is a proper conversation for a young lady to have with her stepfather’s secretary.”
“I agree,” said Leander in an odd tone of voice, “so let’s not speak of ourselves or anyone we know. Let’s consider an imaginary problem in ethics: A certain man serves an evil master. But he works for a good reason, to pay his sisters’ dowries. That is his duty to his family and his vow to his dying father.”
I listened without commenting, although it was easy enough to guess who the man was, as well as his evil master.
“The master, though evil, pays very well,” continued Leander. “If the man left this master, he couldn’t get another such position, and his sisters might be past childbearing age before he could get them married off properly. What should he do? Sur
ely it is wrong to serve the evil master. But it would be wrong also not to follow his father’s deathbed request.”
“Why, that’s clear as water,” said Gundi with a sniff. “Family duty comes first, so the fellow should serve his master until he’s paid his sisters’ dowries. Then he can cut the evil master’s throat, which he deserves, and escape in the middle of the night.”
Leander gave her an outraged look, but I couldn’t hold back a snort of laughter. Then I said soberly, “Only the mighty ones can truly do as they wish. That’s why I wanted to serve Diana, because—” My voice caught on the last words. I remembered my dream, when I took the goddess’s hand, and my feeling of striding forward toward adventure.
Leander shook his head, leaning forward earnestly. “But might doesn’t get us justice. Think of the stories about the gods and the heroes. Yes, they’re powerful, but they’re ruled by their passions. For example, Zeus falls in love with Europa, so he turns himself into a bull and kidnaps her. He never stops to consider, Is my course of action right? Is it just? He feels a passion, and he acts on it.”
“The gods don’t have to ask themselves what is right or what is just!” Gundi put in. “They are—the gods, that’s all.”
“Yes, they can do whatever they wish.” Leander looked directly at me, although he was answering Gundi. “But is that admirable? There must be a higher standard than that, or life would be senseless.” He glanced over his shoulder as if he felt danger. But he went on, “I do not admire power unless it is used in a good way.”
Staring at him, I drew in a long breath and let it out. Leander’s words were deeply satisfying to me. For a moment we were silent, and even Gundi only made a disapproving tsk, tsk. The sound of the pennants snapping at the top of the mast seemed loud. Then Leander looked down at the checkerboard. “It’s your move, Miss Salome.”
Salome Page 4