Salome

by Beatrice Gormley

  “So you got the Baptizer,” called out a guard from the gate tower.

  “We always get our man,” answered the captain. The gates clanged open, and the men tramped under the arch and disappeared.

  I gasped. I could hardly believe Antipas had done this to Herodias. She thought the desert preacher was safely locked up far away in Macherus. What would she say when she found out? I was a little fearful of Herodias’s anger. At the same time, I hoped she’d now realize that Antipas couldn’t be trusted.

  I hurried to Herodias’s suite, where her maid told me she was still asleep. Iris insisted on waking her mistress in a special way. Rubbing a feather with perfumed ointment, she waved it near Herodias’s nose. A dreamy smile appeared on her face, and her eyes fluttered open.

  “Why, Salome,” she said, catching sight of me at the foot of her bed. She stretched and sighed. “Do you know, I like living in Tiberias. I thought I’d miss Rome, but this city is like a little Rome.” She gave a girlish giggle. “Except that I’m like a queen here—queen of Galilee and Perea and—later, who knows!”

  She had no idea what Antipas had done. Or—had she persuaded Antipas to bring the Baptizer here, to execute him?

  When I told her what I’d seen, her dreamy mood vanished. “What! Antipas promised—” Throwing off the blanket, she jumped out of bed. Iris nervously held out clothes for her to put on.

  “How could he do this?” Herodias exclaimed. Flinging her arms around, she stuck herself on a brooch, screamed, and slapped her maid. Iris held out a comb, but Herodias stormed off toward the Tetrarch’s suite with her hair all wild.

  She was soon back, though. The Tetrarch had left the palace early with his steward, she’d found out. It seemed that Antipas was inspecting the site for the new shrine to Diana. He’d return later this morning for his weekly public audience, and he’d ordered the Baptizer to be brought before him. “You can be sure I’ll be there, too,” added Herodias.

  Herodias had me stay in her rooms to keep her company while her maid was arranging her hair and patting her face with powder. “So I was right! The preacher does have some kind of hold over Antipas. He wants to talk to the man!”

  As Herodias went on and on, I began to feel as tense as a lyre string pulled too tight. To distract myself, I opened her jewelry chest and fiddled with the gold chains and bangles. The emerald ring caught my eye, and I slipped it on my finger.

  Herodias had stopped talking. I glanced up at her. One of her eyes was lined with kohl, but the other was not yet made up, which gave her a slightly deranged look. In a low tone she said, “Take off my engagement ring.”

  Hastily I put Herodias’s ring back in the chest. Muttering something about getting ready for the audience myself, I slipped out of the room.

  Gundi thought that Prince Antipas would hold his audience in the main hall, but I’d gotten the impression, from something Herodias had said, that the audience would take place in the great formal courtyard. With Gundi grumbling along behind me (mainly in her Germanic tongue, but with enough Greek words thrown in for me to catch her meaning), I hurried to the public end of the palace and down a flight of broad steps to the courtyard.

  But the grand dais at the far end of the courtyard was empty. The only people in sight were a man at the outer gate, the younger man with him, and two guards blocking their way. “Get out of here,” said one of the guards to the men. “The Tetrarch doesn’t want to be bothered with your stories of figs and olives.”

  “Justice is justice,” said the older man. He was dressed in a coarse but decent robe, and he leaned on a walking staff. “That’s what the Tetrarch’s public audience is for. I have a right to stand before my prince in public court and appeal for justice.”

  “It’s Prince Antipas’s client who seized our orchards!” added the younger man. “Who else should my father appeal to if not the Tetrarch?”

  The guards burst out laughing. “You old fool!” said the second guard to the father. “If Antipas’s client took your orchards and you appeal to Antipas, how do you think he’ll decide the case?” He turned to the first guard, dropping his jaw and rubbing his chin in mock stupidity. They both guffawed again.

  “Anyway,” the first guard added, “the Tetrarch is holding court in the main hall, not here.” (Gundi raised her eyebrows at me in a silent I-told-you-so.) “No, commoners can’t walk through the palace to the hall. Go around outside if you’re dead set on trying to get a hearing.”

  “But be ready to get a kick in the backside instead,” remarked the second guard.

  The old farmer’s shoulders sagged, and he turned to go. But his son noticed me. “Lady—gracious lady! You must have some influence at court.”

  I shook my head, backing away.

  “If only you would help us get a hearing!” pleaded the young man. “That’s all we ask for, a—”

  One of the guards took a threatening step toward the young farmer, and he broke off. I turned and scurried out of the courtyard.

  As Gundi and I made our way through the palace to the hall, I brooded over the young farmer’s words. I didn’t think of myself as a lady, though I supposed I was one. But why had the man appealed to me? Why would he think I had any influence?

  Come to think of it, the idea of influence had crossed my own mind when I was talking to Antipas in the library. I blushed. But that was quite different, because I’d thought of getting a personal favor.

  I entered the main hall, where the rest of the court was already in attendance. Many other people, including the ones I’d seen at the Jewish prayer meeting, crowded the majestic room. As an official seated me on a bench near the dais, Joanna was carried to a place near the front. If her “holy man” was John the Baptizer, I thought, she must be as upset as Herodias that he was here. Upset for a different reason, of course.

  Leander stood to one side of the dais, note tablet and stylus ready. Herodias sat beside Antipas, both her eyes now made up and the emerald ring firmly on her finger. She wore her “Queen Herodias” expression, but a tense muscle twitched in her jaw.

  Antipas didn’t seem aware of his wife, although she was right next to him. Intent and eager, his gaze returned again and again to the back of the hall. For just an instant, his eyes rested on me, and his expression changed. He was still intent, but more like a hunting dog pointing at a pheasant. I looked away.

  Then a courtier bent down to whisper to Antipas. The Tetrarch nodded, and the man called to the back of the hall, “Bring the prisoner in!” The crowd parted down the middle to let two guards through, pulling the Baptizer along by his elbows toward Antipas’s throne.

  I glanced at Herodias, wondering if she now felt foolish for being afraid of this man. His wrists were still chained. Next to the brawny guards, he looked underfed and not very tall. With his coarse camel-hair tunic and weathered face, the famous prophet might be mistaken for a shepherd.

  Herodias looked puzzled, but not reassured. As the Baptizer came closer to Antipas’s throne, I thought, He’s not acting like a humble commoner seeing the inside of a palace for the first time. He didn’t seem to notice the splendid scarlet columns to either side of him, or the intricate mosaic floor under his rough sandals, or the well-dressed crowd staring at him. John kept his eyes straight ahead, on the Tetrarch. Stopping before the dais, he didn’t bow to Antipas, but looked up at him through matted hair.

  “Well, John Baptizer?” said the Tetrarch. “I hear you have a message for me.”

  “Yes. I have a message for you, Antipas, and for all the Lord’s people.” John’s voice was much stronger than I expected from this scrawny man. He hadn’t addressed my stepfather as “Prince Antipas,” I noted, or “Tetrarch,” or even “my lord.” Was he so unmannered, or did he dare to address the ruler of Galilee and Perea as an equal?

  Turning from one side of the court to the other, the desert preacher let his voice ring out even louder, filling the hall. “Repent! Turn from evil. Prepare for the coming of the Lord’s anointed.” He seem
ed aware, for the first time, of all the embroidered robes and gold necklaces in the crowd. “If you have two coats, share with the person who has none.” As his eagle’s gaze neared me, I felt uncomfortable, and I pulled my silk palla closer around my shoulders.

  This man was looking at me, and Herodias, and Antipas—at all the men and women of high position here—as if we were ordinary people! Antipas, the Baptizer seemed to say by his manner, did not deserve respect for being ruler of Galilee and Perea. The one really important question about the Tetrarch was whether he was righteous.

  Antipas made an impatient gesture. “Evil—yes, yes. What I meant was, I want to hear you prophesy.” Herodias clenched and unclenched her hands on the carved arms of her seat, but Antipas didn’t seem to notice. “Baptizer, you call yourself a prophet—what prophecies do you have for me?” The Tetrarch leaned forward from his throne.

  “I have never called myself a prophet,” answered John. “But anyone who reads Scripture will find a prophecy meant for the rulers of the Jews today. Hear the words of the prophet Amos: ‘Because you trample on the poor and take from them levies of grain, you have built houses of hewn stone, but you shall not live in them; you have planted pleasant vineyards, but you shall not drink their wine.’”

  I could hardly believe my ears. This underfed, ragged man was standing up to Herod Antipas, ruler of Galilee and Perea, shoving the truth into his face like a torch at a wild boar. I felt a frightening but thrilling vertigo, as if I were back on board the ship, poised at the top of a huge wave. Glancing toward Joanna, I saw her sit up in her litter. Her face shone. As for Leander, he stared at John as if he saw a demigod.

  A silence followed John’s words, broken by Herodias’s voice. “My lord Antipas, is this dignified—holding an audience with a homeless preacher? Why should the Tetrarch of Galilee and Perea care what this flea-bitten, dried-up fellow thinks?”

  Waving at his wife as if she were a horsefly, Antipas leaned forward to speak again to the Baptizer. But John spoke first. “If you would rule the Jews—”

  A courtier broke in. “If Prince Antipas would rule. Perhaps we’re mistaken—is it you who rule, Baptizer? That must be why you’re in chains and Prince Antipas sits upon the throne.” Laughter ran around the hall, but the Tetrarch frowned and held up a hand for silence.

  “Antipas”—John’s voice cut through the noise—“don’t deceive yourself. You presume to rule the Jews, the people of the Lord. Yet you live by the law of Rome rather than the Law of Moses. The Law of Moses says, ‘You shall not covet your neighbor’s wife. You shall not commit adultery.’ If you truly wish to repent, put aside this woman, your brother Herod’s wife.”

  I heard gasps, including my own, around the hall. The preacher had said it to Antipas’s face, in the presence of Herodias and all the court. “This woman,” he dared to call my mother. To the Baptizer, there was no difference between the poor farmer I’d seen at the palace gate and Herodias, descendant of Herod the Great and the proud Hasmonean dynasty.

  Herodias had been sputtering, struggling to speak, and now she found her tongue. “Shut his mouth!”

  The guards looked from Herodias to Antipas with raised eyebrows, waiting for his order. Why did Antipas hesitate? What was going through his mind? Stroking his beard, he gave a sigh. Finally he told the guards, “That’s enough. Put him in the dungeon until he can show some respect.”

  As the guards marched the Baptizer away down the rows of scarlet pillars, the preacher’s voice boomed around the audience hall. “I respect only the word of the Lord and those who obey it.”

  After the audience, I was glad that Herodias shut herself up in her suite with a fierce headache. I didn’t want to eat lunch with her while she ranted on about John.

  The person I was itching to talk to was Leander. Hadn’t the Baptizer acted out this morning what Leander had said? I do not admire power unless it is used in a good way.

  But surely the Baptizer couldn’t be allowed to speak that way about the ruler of the land. If common people could criticize the Tetrarch, who would obey his laws? What did Leander think? I thought I would soon find out, because we were to meet for a lesson today. But after lunch, as I was about to leave for the lower terrace, a slave delivered a note from Leander: Antipas wanted his secretary’s services this afternoon after all.

  If I couldn’t talk to Leander, I decided, I’d go see Joanna. Maybe I could find out why her face had lit up as she listened to the desert preacher. She wouldn’t talk freely to me, Herodias’s daughter, about John, but still I was curious to see what she would say. I sent Gundi to the steward’s house to ask if Joanna would receive a visitor.

  I thought Joanna might be tired out from going to court, but Gundi grudgingly reported that the steward’s wife would be glad to see Miss Salome. “Aren’t you afraid of catching her wasting illness?” Gundi asked me as we walked through the palace grounds. “Besides, it’s midday rest time.”

  “You’re the one who wants a nap,” I told Gundi, stopping outside the door of the steward’s house. “Go on back. Joanna’s maid can escort me home.”

  I was glad to enter the steward’s modest house again. Today Joanna was in the garden, and she beckoned me in. It was a small garden, but pleasant, with cushions on the benches and flowering vines twining around the pillars.

  Joanna sat upright in a wicker armchair near the blossoming lemon tree. “Sit down and tell me about Rome, Salome. Do you miss your life there?”

  I felt a little shy, because I wasn’t used to talking about myself. But as I described my class at the Temple of Diana, Joanna seemed truly interested. I’d never told anyone except Herodias about my dream that last night in the Temple, but now I struggled to explain it to Joanna. “I was so excited and so afraid at the same time! It was like—well, like what you said at the hot springs: a window opened on a different world.”

  Joanna’s face tightened, and she moved uneasily, but I plunged ahead. “The preacher you went to hear was John the Baptizer, wasn’t he?”

  Looking down at the garden path, Joanna spoke in a careful tone. “Some would say that the Baptizer is possessed by a demon. This morning, he didn’t seem to notice that he was in a palace, not on the riverbank. And he insulted Antipas to his face, as though he didn’t know he could be put to death for it.”

  “He does seem possessed, in a way,” I said. “Why does he hate my mother so much?”

  “You mean, why does he urge the Tetrarch to put her aside?” asked Joanna slowly. “I’m not sure he hates her.”

  “But doesn’t he understand how it would ruin her life if Antipas divorced her? It would be a terrible humiliation. What would she do? Where would she go? She’d have to beg some relatives to take her in.”

  “Rather like what happened to the Nabatean princess,” said Joanna, almost too softly to hear. Without waiting for a response from me, she gestured to her maid. “But I’m forgetting about hospitality! Zoe, bring us a cool drink. Miss Salome must be thirsty.” She smiled politely. “And after refreshments, I’m afraid, I must rest, or I will suffer tomorrow for overextending myself.”

  I was the one who’d overextended myself, of course. I shouldn’t have mentioned John the Baptizer by name. Sipping my drink, I meekly went back to chatting about life in Rome. An unpleasant possibility struck me: maybe Joanna suspected that Herodias had sent me to pump her about the preacher.

  Joanna must have liked me anyway, though, or maybe she just didn’t want to hurt my feelings. As I was about to leave, she said, “Please come to see me again, Salome. Do you know any poetry? I’d enjoy hearing it.”

  I returned to the palace puzzling over what Joanna had said, or hinted at, about my mother. Although I’d been very angry with Herodias for marrying Antipas, it had never occurred to me that it might be wrong for her to do so.

  THIRTEEN

  A VISIT FROM HEROD ANTIPAS

  Outside the audience hall, the guards marched John quickly through the palace to the back stairs. Here the magn
ificence came to a sudden end, and rough stone steps led downward to the prisons. There was no light except from the lamps flickering on the walls. The jailer let them through an iron gate, and the guards shoved John along the passageway, past the cell where he’d been kept this morning.

  Another stairway, narrower than the first. John was afraid he might suffocate. It wasn’t the prison air, although that was stale and foul. He felt as if the stones of the prison walls were pressing on him, weighing more with each step downward.

  Finally the forward guard stopped, holding his torch to show a grate in the stone floor. The other guard lifted up the iron grating with a crowbar and jerked his head from John to the hole. The torch didn’t light the pit except for its rim, but John found that it wasn’t as deep as it looked. In fact, it wasn’t deep enough for him to stand upright.

  With a scraping noise, the grate dropped back into place overhead.

  Facing Antipas in the grand hall, John had felt as strong and sure as an avenging angel. Now he struggled like a drowning man in a lake of dread. Hell, Gehenna, was supposed to be a land of eternal fire, but John thought this cell would be a much worse place of punishment.

  John tried to escape from the prison by turning his thoughts to the outside world: the arch of sky over the hills, the gurgle of the creek flowing into the baptizing pool, the scent of green things growing by the river. But from prison, the wide world seemed far away and not quite real. Herod Antipas, like an evil magician, had shrunk John’s world down to a box of clammy stone.

  Torchlight flickered overhead, and John braced himself for a soldier with a drawn sword. Instead, when the guard pried up the grating, John’s disciple Elias peered down. “Rabbi?”

  John raised his manacled hands to grasp his disciple’s. “Peace, Elias! Thank the Lord.” With his friend here, John could even smile. “You made good time from Jericho to Tiberias.”