John didn’t ask how he’d gotten into the prison, but Elias muttered, “A friend, a wealthy lady, gave the guards silver.” His breathing was labored, and he stared down at John with anxious eyes.
“Don’t worry. I’m well, Elias,” said John. It calmed him to reassure his disciple. “Give me the news. Where are the others?”
“Rabbi, we’re all staying with good people in the next town, Capernaum.” Elias hesitated. “They tell us your cousin Yeshua is preaching nearby, in Nain. Crowds are following him around. Many say that he’s the prophet Elijah come back to life.”
“Yeshua?” The last time John had seen his cousin, Yeshua had been in a group at the river, waiting to be baptized. The mood at baptisms was always thrilling, but there had been a special breathless feeling about that day. After the immersion, Yeshua had disappeared before John had a chance to speak to him.
“Some even say he’s the Anointed One,” said Elias, “come to rescue the Lord’s people.”
A tremor of hope shook John’s heart. He answered, “Maybe he is the One. What does he say about himself?”
Elias shrugged and shook his head.
If the One for whom John had prepared the way was here, then the Baptizer’s work was done. The Lord’s purpose was going forward. In spite of the way it seemed, the Herods were not in control. This luxurious palace, squatting on its own filth, was not the real center of power.
“Go to Yeshua and ask him,” John urged. “Ask him outright. Say, ‘Your kinsman John wants to know, are you the Messiah? Or should we look for someone else?’ Then come back and tell me what he says.”
After Elias left, doubt and despair came rushing back over John. “Weakling!” he reproached himself. It wasn’t the dark he minded or going hungry and thirsty. From his years in the wilderness, waiting for the word of the Lord, he was used to watching through the night and used to fasting. And he’d slept on stones many times before, in caves no larger than this cell. But those caves had opened onto the Lord’s wide world.
John prayed that he would not go mad. He chanted a psalm: “My soul waits for the Lord more than watchmen for the morning, more than watchmen for the morning.”
John dreamed, and in the dream angels carried him to the wilderness. Standing on a hilltop, he breathed dry, herb-scented air. Insects hummed in the grass, and John could see the far horizon in every direction.
The day after the audience, they moved John from the pit into an ordinary cell. Here gray light trickled down from an air shaft near the ceiling. Had they moved him in preparation for executing him? John wondered. A soldier wouldn’t have room to swing his sword in the pit.
Time passed. A guard unlocked his cell and set down bread and water. More time passed until the gray light faded to black again. As John was saying his evening prayers, torchlight flickered in the corridor, and the cell door opened again.
“John Baptizer,” said a voice as rich as creamy cheese. “I want to talk to you.”
John thought he recognized that voice, but still he squinted in disbelief at the man in the doorway. Pushing himself to his feet, John faced Herod Antipas. The Tetrarch gave off the scent of costly perfume, more frightening than the stench of the prison.
“I thought we could speak frankly, here in private,” said Antipas. “It was a mistake to bring you into the audience hall yesterday. Before my court, I had to uphold my role as Tetrarch, and of course your followers were also watching you.” He chuckled. “Oh, yes, I know there are servants and even courtiers who follow the Baptizer. I know that my steward’s own wife traveled all the way to Jericho to hear you preach. Chuza actually believed her story about going to visit her aunt in Jericho!”
By the torchlight John noted Antipas’s build, overfed but muscular, like a boar. The royal pig, thought John, that eats the flesh of the children of the poor.
“Understand,” Antipas went on, “I don’t argue with much of what you preach. I hear that you advise soldiers and tax collectors about how to behave better. This is good, John; this is good. But you’ve spoken very harshly of me.”
“I’ve said only, turn from evil,” said John. “He who would rule the Lord’s people must become clean himself.”
“Evil! Can you call it evil, John, that I’ve saved Galilee and Perea from Roman rule?” Antipas stretched out a hand, appealing to the preacher as one reasonable man to another. “Wasn’t it a great accomplishment of mine to keep Galilee an independent territory? If it weren’t for my connections in Rome, Galilee as well as Judea would be under Governor Pilate’s thumb. You remember how Pilate tried to defile the Temple with the Imperial standards when he arrived in Jerusalem.”
“You have defiled the tombs of the Jews to build this wicked city,” said the Baptizer.
“If you want to talk of evil—well! The true evil is that I was cheated out of the throne of Greater Judea. My father had appointed me heir to his whole kingdom.” The Tetrarch’s tone was hurt. “But then the old man went senile, changed his mind, and gave half of his kingdom to my incompetent brother Archelaus. Archelaus made a mess of ruling Judea, the Emperor sent him into exile—and the Roman governors have been oppressing Judea ever since.”
“You are the oppressor,” said John quietly.
Folding his arms, Antipas fixed John with a reproachful look. “Baptizer, you accuse me unjustly. Why do you stir the people up against me? Why are you making life hard for me? Do you think my lot is so easy?”
When John didn’t answer, Antipas went on, “It is not easy to rule Galilee. Think about this: I have to collect taxes for the Romans. I have to stay on good terms with the Jewish leaders. I have to keep the peasants quiet. And I have to watch the southern border—the king of Nabatea would like to grab a chunk of Perea. All this, with the Emperor’s regent looking over my shoulder!”
“Why are you telling me these things?” asked John. “All I care about is preaching the word of the Lord. All the Lord cares about is repentance.”
Antipas regarded him silently for a moment. Now, thought John, the Tetrarch would call for the guard. He would have this troublesome preacher killed right then and there.
But Antipas said, “Very well, I never said I wouldn’t repent. What must I do to repent?”
John was stunned. Was it possible that the tyrant really wanted to repent? One thing he knew: it was not up to him, John, to decide who was truly repentant. His mission was only to call the people to turn their lives around. The Lord alone could judge them.
Antipas went on, “John, let us not be enemies.” He lowered his voice. “I wouldn’t say this to everyone, but my fiftieth birthday coming up is making me think—how do I want future generations to remember me? The time to act is now. I have the official position, but you have sway over the common people. If you and I join together, Baptizer, we can make the ancient prophecies come true.”
“Then listen, here is the prophecy you should heed,” said John. “Hear the words of the prophet Ezekiel: ‘Ho, shepherds of Israel who have been feeding yourselves! Should not shepherds feed the sheep? You eat the fat, you clothe yourselves with the wool, you slaughter the fatlings, but you do not feed the sheep.’”
Antipas sighed. “Think over what I’ve said.” In an abruptly cold tone he added, “And think about this: if I order it, they’ll take you to the amphitheater and feed you to the panthers.”
John said calmly, “The Tetrarch has no more idea of repenting than a pig.” Turning his back on Antipas, he knelt on the floor, closed his eyes, and recited a psalm: “Hear, O Lord, when I cry aloud…”
“Consider carefully,” said Antipas.
“Give me not up to the will of my enemies…”
“Think it over.” The Tetrarch’s footsteps faded in the corridor, but his perfume lingered.
FOURTEEN
JOANNA’S DAUGHTER
Herodias and Antipas weren’t cooing and billing like turtledoves any longer. Gundi said that Iris said that the Tetrarch didn’t come to Herodias’s rooms every night.
When he did, they sometimes quarreled. On those nights, the visit would end with Herodias in hysterical tears and Antipas stalking back to his suite. Iris kept a sleeping potion ready every evening in case things turned out badly and her mistress needed it.
Gundi also reported that Antipas’s taster said that the prison guards said that the Tetrarch had gone to the prison once, late at night. He hadn’t let anyone accompany him down the stone steps, but the guards guessed that he spoke with the Baptizer.
Gundi was pleased about these setbacks for Herodias, but it worried me to hear about them. Galilee seemed more than ever like a foreign and dangerous land, and Rome seemed very far away.
I was eager to get away from the uneasy mood in the palace, and so I soon returned to Steward Chuza’s house. Remembering Joanna’s suggestion, I brought a collection of poems from the palace library.
As Joanna’s maid Zoe led me toward the garden, I heard voices. In front of Joanna’s couch knelt several people in shabby clothes, reaching out to kiss her hand. “My lady,” said a fisherman, “I was about to sell my boat and hire out as a day laborer. We would have had to move to the slum outside the city walls.”
“Dear lady, we owe you our lives,” sobbed a young woman holding a baby. Two older children clung to her skirt. “May Hera bless you and all your family, kind lady.”
“And the Jewish god, of course—may he bless you, too!” added another man.
Joanna glanced across the garden as I entered, but she hardly seemed to notice me. “Peace, farewell,” she murmured to the commoners backing away from her. There were tears in her eyes.
As the young woman with the baby turned, I noticed that she looked even younger than I’d thought. Could these be her own children? Maybe she was the oldest of a family of orphans.
The commoners left, pausing again and again to look back as if they could hardly bear to take their eyes off Joanna. I sat down in a chair near her couch. “You must have sold some property,” I said.
Joanna nodded, wiping her eyes. “I only wish I’d done it long ago. I didn’t realize how far I’d drifted from the heart of the Law since I married. Chuza became a Jew, and of course he follows the forms and customs just as the Tetrarch demands. But that’s all—there’s no heart to it in Tiberias.” Pausing, Joanna frowned and cleared her throat, as if she’d talked too freely. “Enough of this. I’m glad to see you, Salome. Did you bring some poetry?”
“I don’t understand about the Law,” I said, ignoring her question. “What is the heart of it?”
“To love the Lord and to love your neighbor,” said Joanna. “And in order to love my neighbors, I have to notice them, don’t I? It’s not enough to give the alms collector a tenth of my income, as if I were paying a customs official. The holy man was telling me to open my eyes and really see the people who needed my help. How can I explain it?” She looked at me earnestly. “Imagine if you stood on the shore of Lake Tiberias, but you always turned away from the water.”
I shook my head, bewildered. “How could I live in Tiberias and not look at the lake?”
“Exactly what I ask myself!” exclaimed Joanna. “Anyway, I asked the holy man what I should do to repent. He told me, ‘Share your riches with the poor.’”
“Riches? But your husband is only a steward,” I said.
“Yes, that’s just what I thought. What riches?” Joanna gestured around her modest garden. “Then I considered the properties my father deeded to me when I married, and I saw how much more I had than I needed. And I saw people who truly needed the money.” Joanna smiled sadly. “I didn’t have to look far. Did you know how many farmers and fishermen in Galilee lose their means to make a living? Or how many women are widowed and left with little children to feed?”
“But there are so many poor people,” I said. “How could you help them all? And what about the preacher? Did you give him money, too?”
“No,” said Joanna. She looked at me as if she’d just remembered whose daughter I was. “Later, I managed to give him some food, but that’s all. I don’t think he wants money.” Changing the subject, she asked, “Did you notice the young widow with three little children? She reminded me a bit of my daughter.”
“You have a daughter?” I asked. I thought Joanna meant a daughter who had married and left home. “Where is she?”
Joanna didn’t answer at first, and I knew I must have guessed wrong. Finally she said, “My daughter died of childbirth fever—her first child. Never mind, Salome; it happened three years ago.” She added in a low voice, “Although at the time, I wished I could have died in her place.”
“I am so sorry,” I murmured. I felt her sorrow keenly. If I had died and Herodias said she wished she could have died in my place, I would have thought, There goes the queen of tragedy again. But when Joanna said she’d wanted to die instead of her daughter, it sounded like a simple matter of fact. A question burst out of me: “Do I remind you of your daughter—a little bit?”
“Ah, Salome.” Joanna reached out a hand to me, and I knelt in front of her couch, where the poor young widow had knelt a short while ago. Joanna pressed my hand between both of hers. “Dear Salome.”
I seemed to sink into her words, melting as in a warm pool. I wanted more than anything for Joanna to go on talking to me in just that tone of voice. At the same time, I felt that I had no right to listen. What would Herodias think?
Joanna said gently, “No, you aren’t much like Althea, my daughter, except that she was about your age.” Feeling a pang, I pulled back. Joanna added quickly, “For one thing, Althea wasn’t beautiful, although she was pleasant-looking. And she was rather meek. Not a girl to be reckoned with,” she teased me.
I tried to smile, but I was shaken and too choked to speak. I left a few moments later without reading any poems.
Early one morning after another quarrel with Antipas, Herodias sent for me. “My daughter, I haven’t slept a wink. You must prepare yourself for the worst. Hear what your stepfather said to me last night!”
Herodias proceeded to give me a blow-by-blow report of the quarrel, beginning (“In all innocence, Salome!”) with her clasping Antipas’s hand in both of hers. “I don’t want to interfere, my prince,” she’d said tenderly, “but I’m afraid the Baptizer’s presence is having a demoralizing effect on your people. They say someone in the palace is visiting the dungeon.” Her voice rose indignantly. “Someone was even bold enough to send him a basket of food!”
I froze. That someone was Joanna, of course.
Not noticing my reaction, Herodias went on with her story. “So you have an informer among my guards?” Antipas had asked.
“I’m only saying that you should have an informer,” Herodias had said. “Or perhaps you should have the guards questioned. Or interrogate the preacher himself.”
“That would be a bad idea,” Antipas had answered. “Torture must be used judiciously. Thank you for your advice, but I already have all the information I need on the Baptizer and his disciples. I know all about the basket of food and its contents. I even know that John gave away the wine to a guard, apparently because he abstains.”
Herodias broke off her performance for a moment to comment to me: “Daughter, you can imagine how his cold tone of voice hurt my feelings, when I wish nothing but my husband’s welfare. But I did not want to quarrel. I tried not to take offense.” She resumed the drama, acting both parts.
“Well!” Herodias had laughed lightly. “My prince’s eyes and ears are everywhere!” She went on in a softer tone. “I don’t see why you won’t send that man to the games master. A shipment of panthers just arrived at the amphitheater, and the games master says they need more prisoners.”
Antipas drew back. “You went to the amphitheater and talked with the games master? What did I tell you about—”
“Oh, never mind all those silly little rules!” Herodias stroked his arm. “Send him to the amphitheater. If you love me, send the Baptizer to the amphitheater.”
“Did any of th
e Jewish leaders see you with the games master?” demanded Antipas.
“The Jewish leaders this, the Jewish leaders that.” Herodias gave her musical laugh. “The Jewish leaders have laws against this; they would be offended by that…. I begin to wonder who’s truly the ruler of Galilee and Perea.”
“You know little of ruling,” said Antipas to his wife in a distant tone, “if you think a ruler can do whatever he likes. Only twenty years ago, there was a savage uprising in this area. The Romans sent in their troops, and the whole city of Sepphoris was destroyed.”
Herodias stepped back and turned away. Over her shoulder, she said, “Perhaps you think you can do whatever you like with me and no one will defend me. Know that I have powerful allies among the Herods—and in the Emperor’s court.”
Antipas had no reply—at least, not in Herodias’s telling of the scene.
That afternoon I went to see Joanna again. “Salome,” she said, “you told me how you loved to dance at the Temple of Diana. Would you dance for me today?”
“Oh, yes! I’d like to.” I hadn’t danced for months. I knew that I missed moving to music, but I hadn’t realized how much until just now. “Would you play the music for me?”
Joanna said she had little skill with the lyre, but Zoe could be my musician. I explained to the maid the kind of music I needed. I decided not to dance any of the sacred dances I’d learned at the Temple of Diana, but instead my springtime dance from the performance of Demeter and Persephone.
With lemon blossoms tucked into my hair, I danced around Joanna’s garden. It wasn’t even as large as my father’s garden in Rome, and so I kept having to double back on my steps. This threw me a bit off balance, and I stumbled once or twice. But I only laughed, picking up the rhythm again easily. Joanna laughed, too, her face lit up.
“Oh, Salome!” she exclaimed when I’d scattered the last flower. “What a delight! You truly expressed the springtime, fresh and lovely.”
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