Salome

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by Beatrice Gormley


  Herodias went on and on. She’d worked out all the details of my “plot,” with my every action imagined as part of it. “Well, I can plot, too,” she finished in a deadly whisper. “There are many ways to deal with an enemy.”

  “No, Herodias! I would never…” My voice trailed away helplessly. Herodias was unhinged. I was afraid of her. Of course, she might be sorry later. Herodias might even cry, the way King Herod the Great had cried over the sons he’d executed by mistake.

  This was what it meant to be a Herod—to trust no one. Pushing myself away from the doors, I walked slowly back to my room.

  “Gundi,” I said, “that was a good idea you had.” I wouldn’t wait like a helpless calf for someone else to decide my fate. I was a Herod, so why not act like a Herod and make my own fate? Not the one that Herodias, Antipas, or even Gundi wanted.

  Gundi and I went over the details of our plan. She’d already taken it upon herself to speak to the dancer and suggest a bargain: I’d borrow the dancer’s costume and her role for the banquet. She’d take the evening off with twice the pay.

  As we were planning, Joanna’s maid, Zoe, appeared with a message. Joanna was feeling better than usual. She was especially eager to see me today, because she’d decided to ask me something.

  Gundi made shooing motions at the other maid. “Miss Salome is very busy this afternoon.”

  In fact, I was just about to return to the exercise field to meet the dancer and practice with the scarves. “Tell your mistress I’ll visit her tomorrow,” I said to Zoe. I felt a pang of regret. At the back of my mind a thought hovered briefly: After tomorrow, nothing will be the same.

  But I must not lose my nerve. They say that when a gladiator is sent from the holding pens under the amphitheater into the arena, they bolt the gates behind him. The gladiator can’t choose to return to the pens to avoid the battle. He’s in the arena. If he wants to live, he has to fight. Now I knew how the gladiators felt.

  By the end of my practice session with the dancer, the sun was low in the sky. I hurried back from the exercise field, for the banquet was about to begin.

  The servants, all those not needed for the moment, were watching from the balcony overlooking the great dining hall. I paused to watch with them, for it was as good as going to the theater. As each splendidly dressed guest arrived, he was crowned with a wreath and announced by the master of the feast, then escorted down the length of the hall to Prince Antipas.

  At Antipas’s couch the guest would bow—low or not so low, depending on his rank. The Tetrarch greeted him and presented him with a gift. Then Chuza led the guest to his place on the proper couch—near Antipas’s head table or not so near, depending again on the guest’s rank.

  Uncle Philip, the guest of honor, reclined on a couch next to Antipas. I thought he looked uncomfortable in his stiff embroidered robes. He mopped sweat from his brow with a napkin.

  I couldn’t hear what the two Tetrarchs were saying, but their actions were like a little mime show, the meaning clear without words. Antipas beckoned his cupbearer to pour more wine. Philip put his hand over his goblet. Antipas drained his own goblet, and the cupbearer refilled it. Philip gave his half brother a sideways glance, as though he’d endured many such evenings with Antipas.

  As the servers below carried in the quails’ eggs and olives, the dancer tapped my shoulder. “We’d better go to your room, Miss Salome. It’ll take longer than you think to get you made up.”

  Gundi was waiting in my bedchamber, looking satisfied. “I took a peek at her. Must have already drunk her evening wine—sleeping like a pig.” I knew Gundi meant Herodias, although she had not said “my lady.”

  The dancer motioned me to sit on the bed. Setting out pots and jars of cosmetics, brushes, combs, and pins, she got to work on my face like a painter on a statue. “You’ve got large eyes with long lashes,” she said approvingly as she lined my eyelids with kohl. “The eyes must stand out, because the lower half of your face will be covered with the veil for most of the dance.”

  While the dancer stroked on paints and powders, she chatted happily. She was delighted she was going home early this evening, before her children were asleep. Her little girl always asked, “Mama, will you stay home tonight? Mama, will you kiss me good night before I go to sleep?” The dancer gave a wistful laugh. “I have to tell her no, Mama has to dance for money again so that my darling will have bread to eat tomorrow.”

  Meanwhile, Gundi was busy with her statuette in a corner. I couldn’t turn my head to see what she was doing, but I smelled incense. “What are you up to, Gundi?” She didn’t answer, but I heard her speak the name of Freya-Aphrodite.

  The dancer painted my fingernails with a rosy stain. Opening a jar of musky perfume, she touched my wrists and neck. “This scent fills the air as you dance. It drives them mad,” she added with a wink.

  Next, the dancer brought out a gilt loincloth and brassiere. “This costume is a copy from a statue of Aphrodite in Pompeii,” she said proudly as she helped me put on the scanty undergarments. “The finest workmanship.” She hung showy gilt earrings from my ears and pushed bracelets and anklets on my arms and legs.

  Then she draped and pinned the scarves around me, beginning with a veil for my lower face. One last time, I practiced shedding the scarves smoothly as part of the dance. I had it perfectly—it was an easy routine, really, more like a series of poses than a dance.

  But as the dancer was leaving, bowing and smiling and vowing to name her next daughter after me, I lost my nerve. “Wait! I can’t do this.” I pulled off the face veil. “I’m sorry about your little girl. I’ll pay you even more—but I can’t do this.” My knees trembled, and my stomach quivered, worse than aboard ship. Running to the slops jar, I was sick.

  Behind me I heard murmurs: worried questions from the dancer, firm answers from Gundi. Then Gundi knelt beside me, holding my head. She wiped my face. “There, there. No harm done. Nothing got on the scarves.”

  I still felt shaky, but relieved. Now, I thought, Gundi must understand that I couldn’t possibly go down to the banquet hall and dance in front of all those men and demand a reward from my stepfather.

  Putting some dried herbs on the brazier, Gundi had me breathe in the smoke. I began to feel better—much better—almost carefree. I noticed that the dancer was no longer in the room, and I assumed she’d gone downstairs to start her dance. But she’d left her costume with me. Maybe she had another one?

  The dancer had left her paints and brushes, too, because Gundi was touching up my lips again, murmuring, “There we go, good as new.”

  I didn’t understand why Gundi was fastening the last veil over my face again, pulling me toward the door. I knew I wasn’t going to dance, but I went along to please her. It didn’t worry me that she was so mistaken—in fact, it was funny. “Gundi, you old silly…”

  Outside my room, I felt everything around me almost as if it had become part of me: the smooth tile under my feet, the soft air flowing along the corridor, the scarves lightly brushing my arms and legs. My hips swayed as I walked. Passing a panel of polished black marble, I glimpsed a vision deep in the stone.

  It was the goddess of love, with wispy garments and glittering ornaments adorning her divine beauty. Her smooth shoulders and arms gleamed through the gaps in her gauzy clothing. Her eyes were accented with kohl, her full mouth stained red. “Gundi,” I said wonderingly. “You’ve called up Aphrodite.”

  “Yes, and she’s with you,” whispered Gundi. “Go.” Pulling me gently to the top of the stairs, she let go of my hand.

  Down in the banquet hall, the dinner was coming to an end. Servers carried in trays of fruit and sweetmeats, while other slaves lit the lamps. I descended the stairs with deliberate steps, scarves trailing. Under the flimsy costume, I felt my body glowing like hot gold.

  Antipas, in spite of all the wine he’d drunk, noticed me coming down the stairs. “Aha!” he called out. A gong was struck, and the hubbub of conversation in the hall died
away. “Think you’ll enjoy this,” he announced to his guests. “Picked her out myself. Dances with real feeling.” As I’d planned, he thought I was the dancer he’d hired.

  The musicians were waiting for my signal. I nodded. Drumming began, growing slowly louder as I stepped into a shaft of sunset light, and the guests turned their heads toward me. “Ahh,” I heard them breathe. Antipas watched with a pleased expression, his eyes half closed.

  I lifted my arms to begin the dance, and the musicians started a slow melody on the pipes. A light drumbeat pulsed underneath.

  I wove my way around the dining couches. I didn’t look directly at any of the men, but from the corner of my eye, I saw them staring at me. I let the first scarf float to the floor, and the cymbals sent a shiver of sound through the hall. I was borne along on the dance the way I used to be, dancing for Diana.

  But now I serve another goddess, I thought. Aphrodite. Her power is mine. I feel it trailing out behind me, filling the hall, like the scent of my perfume.

  Another scarf unwound and floated away from my body. The cymbals rang. One man lifted the scarf from the floor without taking his eyes off me and pressed the cloth to his mouth. I danced on and on, shedding the lengths of gauze one after the other, until the steps brought me before Antipas’s couch.

  In a sweeping motion I pulled the veil off my face and the clasp from my hair. Sliding to the floor, I bent backward so that my body arched from my toes to my fingers, with my loosened hair brushing the tiles. With a last throb of the drum, the music ceased.

  The hall was still, except for the sound of men breathing. I rose to my knees. One of the musicians had gathered up the scarves, and she now wrapped them around me. But my face was bare. “Here is my gift for your birthday, O prince,” I said.

  Antipas licked his lips. “A priceless gift,” he answered in a hoarse voice.

  “I await my reward.” My voice sounded shrill in the hall full of important men. Inside my head, Aphrodite seemed to laugh in delight at my boldness. Philip, on the couch next to Antipas, stared at me. At the edge of my thoughts, I wished he weren’t here to see me act like—like a Herod. But I couldn’t think about that now. I spoke again, louder. “The prince promised a generous gift.”

  Around me the guests grinned and beat their goblets on the tables. “Yes! Reward the dancer!” Most of them had no idea who I was.

  “By the gods, you shall have your reward.” Antipas stretched a hand across the table toward me, the sleeve of his robe brushing the sweetmeats on a silver platter. He cleared his throat, and his voice became stronger. “Whatever you wish.” Applause echoed through the hall, then died away as the guests leaned forward to hear my request.

  “Whatever I wish?” I said breathlessly. The moment had come.

  “Whatever you wish. Do you want gold, pearls, all the treasure in my storerooms?” At Antipas’s last reckless suggestion, I saw Steward Chuza half rise from his couch, wringing his hands. Antipas paid no attention. “If you wish it, I will give you…half my kingdom.” His eyes locked mine, and he added in a whisper, “You know what I mean.”

  I did know. He meant exactly what Gundi had intended. But it wasn’t what I intended.

  Antipas went on, loud enough for all to hear, “I, Herod Antipas, son of Herod the Great, swear it on my honor as Tetrarch of Galilee and Perea. If you wish it, I will give you half my kingdom.”

  Now I would say, “Send me back to Rome, to the Temple of Diana.” If only I had spoken without looking around! But I heard a sound—a moan—from the direction of the stairs. I did look around.

  A woman stood on the bottom step, clutching the pedestal of the lamp stand. For a moment I thought it was Herodias. But wasn’t Herodias upstairs, deep in a drugged sleep? Besides, this woman looked older.

  “Daughter!”

  It was Herodias. Only, this was the Herodias I had glimpsed during my night in the Temple of Diana—a small, weak person. It hurt me to see her like this, stripped of her beauty and charm, surrounded by enemies. Yes, Antipas had filled his grand hall with Herodias’s enemies, men who wished her ill. Most of them would be glad to see Herodias put aside by Antipas and turned out of the palace.

  My mother was now hastening across the dining hall, around clusters of couches and tables, toward me. There was terror, and a desperate hope, on her face. Pity wrung my heart.

  No pity, however, showed in Antipas’s stare at his wife. “I thought I made it clear that women were not to come to this banquet.”

  Chuza leaned toward him. “Shall I call the guards, my lord?”

  “No!” I cried out, not pleading but commanding. “Leave her alone.”

  My stepfather swung his head around to regard me. His eyelids were half closed, and he spoke slowly. “You get only one wish. Choose carefully.”

  Flinging herself onto the floor in front of me, Herodias clutched my ankles. She kissed my feet. “I pray you, dearest, kindest daughter, let me stay with you. Oh, protect me. I beg of you!”

  My mother and I should not be enemies. It was Antipas, and all such powerful men, who turned us women against each other, like gladiators who should have been friends.

  Herodias raised her head, her eyelashes sparkling with tears. From my towering height of divine strength, I was glad to offer my protection to this poor woman. I bent down and pulled her up.

  “Oh, child of my heart,” whispered Herodias. “If only you will claim the courage and wisdom of our royal ancestors, you can save us both! It all depends on what you ask for.”

  “What shall I ask?” I whispered back.

  Squeezing my hand, Herodias told me what she wanted.

  I felt a shock of horror, but then understanding sank into me. I saw through Aphrodite’s eyes, free of the human notions of right and wrong. If I forced Antipas to do what Herodias wanted, no one could touch her. He’d be casting his lot with his wife, against the Jews who wanted her put aside.

  Now Herodias and I were as close as I could have wished when I was a little girl. Only, this was not the cozy closeness of my childhood. It was a closeness shaped by the sad, bleak truth: the world was against us. Our charmed circle was the circle formed by two gladiators swinging their swords.

  I took a deep breath. “I wish the head of John, called the Baptizer!” My voice rang from the lavishly decorated ceiling. “As you swore on your honor, O prince.”

  NINETEEN

  THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH

  In his prison cell under the banquet hall, John heard footsteps coming down the corridor. He recognized that tread: it was the evening-shift jailer. The door was unbarred and opened a crack. “Baptizer, your disciple left a message.” The man handed over a tablet and held up his torch so that John could read it.

  To Rabbi John the Baptizer from Elias his disciple, began the note scratched in the wax surface of the tablet. I hoped to see you in person to tell you about Rabbi Yeshua. We found him still in Nain, where we heard him preach. Rabbi, we were filled with joy. Your cousin said, Repent, the kingdom of the Lord is at hand. And afterward he healed many who were sick, blind, and tormented by demons. Then I asked him your question, if he was the One Who Is to Come. He answered, Tell John what you have seen and heard today.

  John sighed deeply. “Thanks be to the Lord.”

  The jailer cleared his throat. “Baptizer…your disciple had no money to pay me for giving you the message. He said you would bless me instead.”

  Lifting his gaze from the tablet, John saw a strange expression on the jailer’s face. “I’m not a magician, jailer,” he said. “I could say a blessing over you, but it would mean nothing unless you repented.”

  The jailer was silent for a moment. Then, keeping his eyes fixed on John’s face, he sank to his knees. “What should I do to repent, Rabbi?”

  Even here, Lord! thought John. Even in the depths of the Tetrarch’s prison, the Lord’s call was heard. “Be merciful to the prisoners you guard,” he told the man. “Give them their bread and water, let them have vi
sitors without taking bribes. And when you have lived this way for a month…”

  John hesitated. At this point in instructing the penitent, he always told them to return to him to be baptized. But now he knew, with a feeling as solid as these stone walls, that he would never baptize again. “When you have lived this way for a month, go find Rabbi Yeshua of Nazareth.”

  A little later, John heard footsteps coming down the corridor toward his cell. There were two pairs of feet this time, and one of them wore heavy-soled soldier’s sandals. While the jailer’s footsteps had been cautious, almost sneaky, these footsteps slapped the stone floor with thoughtless force. A man who walked this way had no qualms about his assignment, no secret desire for blessing.

  John felt the presence, invisible but solid, of the prophet Elijah. And Amos, Ezekiel, Isaiah…all the prophets gone before John gathered now to lend him strength. Peace, John, they said.

  A line of torchlight appeared under the cell door, and the footsteps stopped. The iron bar on the door clanked as someone fumbled with it. “Hurry up, you,” said the soldier. “They’re waiting upstairs.” There was a rasp of steel—the unsheathing of a sword.

  John prayed his last prayer, a prayer of King David. “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.”

  TWENTY

  TRAGEDY

  The Tetrarch gave the order, and a guard left with the silver platter for the prison. The great hall was silent. Time passed. It almost seemed that I could hear the drip of the water clock all the way from the entrance hall. Antipas did not move. He looked stunned, like a wrestler thrown to the ground by a man half his size.

  I was stunned, too. What had happened? Aphrodite had left me. I was no longer a goddess—I was just a young girl without a protector. I felt sick and weak. Be strong, I told myself. Remember your ancestors Lady Salome and Queen Alexandra.

  Here comes the guard with the platter. On the platter, a thing with a face. Eyes and mouth open, chalky gray skin. Like a theater mask for tragedy. Do not look closely at it. Steeling myself, I held out my hands.

 

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