I waited for Philip to tell me he was no longer interested in marriage with me. How would he phrase it in a polite way? “Now that I’ve gotten to know you somewhat…” It was really almost funny. I kept my eyes on the marble floor, but I was aware of his gaze. Maybe he was trying to decide if the listless girl before him was the same person as the murderous hussy who’d danced on Antipas’s birthday.
Finally Philip said abruptly, “There’s a terrible curse on us Herods—and I’m afraid we deserve it. Farewell.” Before I could answer, he turned and hurried down the steps to where his attendants waited. The men disappeared in the direction of the docks.
Gundi accompanied me back to my room. “Now there’s a decent prospect for a husband,” she said. “Why didn’t you smile at him? If you take my advice, you’ll send him an encouraging note. I’m afraid he got the impression you weren’t interested in him.”
“Take your advice!” A surge of anger goaded my dull spirits. “I’ll never take your stupid barbarian advice again.” I raised my hand to cuff her head, and she ducked. But then the anger drained away, and I hated only myself. Besides, it seemed like too much trouble to punish Gundi.
Later I went to the main garden by myself. I wasn’t thinking of Leander, but there he was on a bench with his nose in a scroll. Judging from his dreamy expression, I thought he was far away in ancient Thebes, or Athens, or perhaps Troy. But then he looked up and saw me, and his face changed, as if he’d just noticed a scorpion. He rose, bowed, and started to hurry out of the garden.
“Wait!” I was determined to make him speak to me. After all, he was only a secretary.
He stopped and bowed again, expressionless, a servant waiting for an order.
“Leander, of all the people in Tiberias, you should understand that I had to…Don’t, please don’t just look at me. Speak.”
Leander nodded, a servant accepting an order. “Understand? I understand some things,” he began slowly. “I knew that Lady Herodias wanted the Baptizer dead. I knew—everyone in the palace knew—that the Tetrarch took an…interest in his stepdaughter.” He stopped, his eyes on the flagstones.
“Go on,” I said.
“Very well. I admit I hadn’t expected Prince Antipas’s stepdaughter to take advantage of his…interest in her. When she first began to dance, I couldn’t believe it was her. She was not only seducing her stepfather, but doing it in front of a hall full of men.”
I burned with shame, but I listened. I wanted so badly for him to talk to me.
“Then,” continued Leander, “I thought, Is the young lady so desperate? Does she believe her only hope is to replace her mother? Clearly, the Tetrarch thought this was her intention.”
“But it wasn’t; it wasn’t what I meant to do!” I burst out.
Leander stopped speaking until I was silent again. Then he continued, “So the Tetrarch leaped at the chance. ‘Half my kingdom’—obviously, he could hardly wait to take his stepdaughter for his new wife.”
“Yes, but I was deceiving him, don’t you see?” I couldn’t stand the way Leander was talking about me, as a person he had no connection with. “I know it wasn’t decent, but I was possessed by the goddess—I had no will of my own. Please believe me!”
“Possessed by the goddess,” Leander repeated in a flat voice. “Hmm, I didn’t realize she was possessed. That excuses everything.” He continued, “No, her real intention was much worse than either Antipas or I suspected. She seduced her stepfather, in public, in order to murder a good man.”
“That wasn’t my idea!” I pleaded. “Herodias—”
“Ah,” interrupted Leander. “Now I understand. First she was possessed by Aphrodite, then by her mother.” His polite, interested tone cut deeper than the heaviest sarcasm would have. After a pause, he finished, “I had thought Herodias’s daughter was nothing like her mother, but I was wrong. She is a true Herod, a true descendant of her great-grandfather.”
I felt breathless and sick, as if a stone had hit me in the stomach. “How dare you—I could call the guards. I could have you thrown in prison.”
Leander looked at me. “Yes. The great-granddaughter of Herod could have my head on a platter, too.”
I put up a hand to shield myself from his words. One more, I felt, and I would fall bleeding onto the path. But Leander was through with me. With a final bow, he left the garden.
I wandered up and down the paths, pulling off a leaf here and a blossom there. I noticed a gardener pretending not to look at me, and I realized he must be worried that I’d damage his plants. Sitting down on a bench, I twisted a lock of my hair until my scalp hurt. That pain seemed to balance the pain in my mind so that I could think.
Joanna had been right. Leander was right. I—not Aphrodite—had murdered John the Baptizer. I had chosen to use my power over Antipas to demand John’s head. Herodias and Antipas were responsible, too, but that didn’t mean I was less responsible.
I sat in the garden like a judge on the judgment seat, and I pronounced myself guilty. That was dreadful, but somehow satisfying.
What still disturbed me, strangely, was that no one would punish me. This was not like living in the middle of a tragic play after all. In a Greek tragedy, some kind of dreadful justice is done in the end.
Once, when we were still friends, Leander had tried to explain to me why he liked to watch tragic plays. Yes, it was harrowing to go through all the dying and suffering in a tragedy, he said, but at the end of the play he felt somehow satisfied. At the beginning of the play, the world had been out of kilter. The only way it could be set right was through terrible destruction.
At the time, I hadn’t understood Leander, but now I began to see what he meant. To set things right, I ought to be punished for murdering the Baptizer. So should Antipas and Herodias. Especially since my stepfather and mother weren’t suffering over John’s death at all, but rather “putting the unpleasantness behind them.”
I longed to turn this story of the Herods into a proper tragedy. What if I poisoned our dinner one night? Gundi knew something about herbs and powders, and maybe I could bribe her with the promise of her freedom. The trouble with poison was, Antipas had a taster who took a bite of every dish before the Tetrarch ate it.
Besides, poison seemed too quiet and tidy for my feelings. I wanted some enormous force to wipe out us evil Herods. If I’d commanded an army, I would have ordered them to besiege Tiberias, burn the palace, and tear its walls stone from stone. Now, that would be satisfying.
One morning in the month after the banquet, I climbed to the upper terrace. The air over the lake was thick, but I could make out the cliffs of the eastern shore. That was the border dividing Galilee from Gaulanitis, the realm to which Philip had returned. I felt a pang, remembering his mild face. He didn’t seem to be a real Herod. How had he escaped the family curse?
Movement at the north gate of the city caught my eye, and I saw a curtained litter leaving. Wasn’t it the litter from Steward Chuza’s household? That was strange, because for months Joanna had barely had the strength to go to the hot springs.
When I asked Gundi, she confirmed that the steward’s wife often took the litter out of Tiberias these days. She must be having a spurt of energy. The rumor was that she went to hear a new preacher, and he had a healing influence.
TWENTY-THREE
JOANNA DISAPPEARS
Now that I had no friends, I spent more time reading. At first I went to the palace library looking for my old favorites, Greek novels. But those romantic stories didn’t hold my attention anymore. Then I tried to read Philo of Alexandria, the Jewish philosopher Leander admired, but I found his writings dry.
What suited me these days were the Jewish Scriptures. Not the psalms that Joanna loved, but the stories of times when this god had destroyed wicked people. Once he’d caused the earth to open and swallow up a clan who disobeyed him. Another time, he’d flooded the whole world in order to cleanse it and start over.
I especially liked the story of Sa
mson. Samson was a hero of olden times, betrayed to the Philistines by the woman he loved and trusted. His enemies blinded him, imprisoned him, and made him grind grain like a donkey. When the Philistines were all gathered in their temple, celebrating their triumph over Samson, they brought him out to laugh at him. But Samson stood between the pillars that held up the temple and prayed to the Lord for strength to destroy his enemies. And he brought down the temple, burying himself along with thousands of Philistines.
What if John the Baptizer had done the same in the Tetrarch’s scarlet-pillared audience hall? I imagined the walls of Antipas’s marble palace cracking and crumbling and the gold-leaf roof shattering on top of the pile. Antipas’s expensive paintings and statues and mosaics, his carefully tended gardens—all crushed down into the prisons, the torture chambers, and the dungeons. The Tetrarch, his wife, and his stepdaughter would be smashed in the rubble like slugs.
While I dreamed of destruction, the time of the Jewish harvest festival, the Feast of Booths, came around. Although Antipas seemed to have lost his enthusiasm for observing the Jewish customs, it was still important for him to be seen in Jerusalem at the high festival. So he’d take his court south for the celebration, as he had in past years. Only Steward Chuza would stay behind to manage things.
At first I was determined to stay behind, too. Why would I want to spend two days in the carriage each way with Herodias? On the other hand, there was nothing much to keep me in Tiberias. Besides, I felt drawn to see such a great gathering of the Jewish faithful. Supposedly we Herods were Jews, ruling over Jews, but I knew almost nothing about this ancient faith. I would go to Jerusalem and see.
During the journey, Herodias went on at length about how Antipas (not any of his brothers and certainly not Pontius Pilate) was the rightful ruler of Judea, including Jerusalem. When we reached Jerusalem, she pointed out a tower looming over the compound of the Great Temple. “That’s the Castle of Antonia, the palace rebuilt by my grandfather King Herod. In justice, the castle should be our residence in Jerusalem. But of course it’s been taken over by the Romans.”
A massive outer wall protected the Temple grounds. We passed through a tunnel-like gate in the wall and came out into the Court of the Gentiles. This was like an enormous marketplace, thronged with tens of thousands of people. “Make way for the Tetrarch of Galilee,” shouted Antipas’s guards, and the crowds parted to let us cross the court.
A gate in the inner wall led to the Women’s Court. From there, Antipas and his entourage climbed a set of semicircular steps and disappeared through the gate into the Men’s Court.
The moment I stepped into the Women’s Court, where no non-Jews were allowed, I felt the holiness of the place. There was wonder and joy on the faces around me, and I saw a woman kneeling to kiss the pavement.
Herodias and I, with our attendants, went up into the women’s gallery for a better view. The Levite priests appeared on the semicircular steps and sang psalms. Great golden lamps shone around the outer court, and trumpets blared as the priests poured libations from golden pitchers.
The woman next to me was a stranger, but she beamed at me as if I were her niece. “Is this your first Feast of Booths, my dear? It’s a great blessing to be here, isn’t it?”
I smiled and nodded to return her kindness. But I thought, It would be a great blessing, if only I belonged here. I gazed around at the other women crowding the gallery, lifting children up to see. There was joy on their faces, too.
I glanced at Herodias, who was buffing her fingernails. She didn’t belong here, either, but she didn’t care. Anyway, it was no comfort to be like my mother. I felt so lonely that my throat ached. I wished for the Feast of Booths to be over so that we could leave Jerusalem.
Journeying back to Tiberias, we entered the city late one afternoon. As our procession stopped at the palace steps, I looked up to see Steward Chuza in the portico. Of course he would be there, to welcome the Tetrarch home. But the strange thing was, he was sitting at the top of the steps. “Is the man ill?” asked Herodias, stepping out of the carriage.
No—Chuza was drunk. We could see that much when he tried to stand up.
Antipas was angry, then worried. He questioned his steward, who tried awkwardly to distract him by asking about the Tetrarch’s journey. Finally it came out: Chuza was distraught because his wife, Joanna, had gone off to follow the new preacher.
Just like that! It took my breath away.
The courtiers were breathless, too. They crowded the portico around the steward, who stood wavering in front of Antipas.
“Didn’t you forbid her?” demanded Antipas.
“Joanna didn’t ask my permission, my lord,” said Chuza miserably. “She left before dawn. When I woke up, there was only a letter. She said the Rabbi had healed her, and she was going to follow him as a disciple.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Antipas. “A woman can’t be a disciple. And wives can’t just do as they please.”
Wives can’t do as they please? I glanced at Herodias. Chuza stared at Antipas, too drunk to conceal his amazement. The Tetrarch scowled, cleared his throat, and changed the subject. “I thought it was the mineral baths that were healing your wife.”
“Undoubtedly it was, my prince.” Chuza bowed un-steadily. “Our gratitude toward my lord is boundless,” he added in a mumble.
Antipas gave a disgusted snort. “Never mind. Tell me what you’ve found out about the new preacher.”
Making an effort to pull himself together, the steward reported what his information gatherers had told him. “His name is Yeshua bar Joseph, my prince, from Nazareth. He goes around among the Jewish towns, often on the lake—Bethsaida, Magdala, Capernaum. He draws large crowds. He may have been in Jerusalem part of the time you were there, during the Feast of Booths. According to our contacts among the Temple leaders, there was a Galilean preacher named Yeshua in Jerusalem, stirring up the people. The Temple leaders nearly arrested him but changed their minds at the last moment. But of course Yeshua is a common Jewish name, and there are many preachers.”
Antipas waved a hand, as he often did when Chuza was giving him too many little facts. “Does he preach against me?”
“Not exactly.” The steward, who usually plodded methodically from one fact to another, looked dismayed. He must have come to a fact he’d rather not report. The courtiers pressed closer to hear.
“Well?” Antipas leaned toward him. “Cough it up.”
“One source reported that he referred to my prince as ‘that fox.’”
I raised my hand to hide a smile. Chuza wouldn’t have said that if he were sober. Antipas liked to think of himself as a mighty bull.
“Does he preach treason?” asked Antipas in a sharper tone.
“Not exactly,” said Chuza again. “He tells the people, ‘The kingdom of heaven is at hand.’ That could mean many things.”
Antipas’s eyebrows drew together. “Whatever it means, have our men watch him closely. Report everything he says.”
I hadn’t seen Joanna since the day after the Baptizer’s death, and I had no reason to think that she’d ever want to speak to me again. Still, knowing that she was gone made Tiberias seem like a truly hopeless place. I hated the airy rooms and marble colonnades of the palace, the gardens with flowering vines and singing birds. As though I were a scuttling night creature, something was pulling me toward the darkness underneath Antipas’s magnificent halls.
One afternoon, when most of the palace was dozing, I wrapped myself in a shawl and pulled it forward to hide my face. Pushing a few extra bangles onto my wrist, I sneaked out of the women’s quarters.
I wasn’t sure where the entrance to the prison was, but I thought it must be beyond the kitchens, which were beyond the far end of the great dining hall. The soldiers’ barracks and the stables were on that side of the palace, I knew.
As I passed through the doorway from the dining hall, I had the sense of peering behind the scenery in a theater. In the corridor leading
past the kitchens, there were no Greek statues, no sumptuous wall hangings, no gilded lamp stands. The kitchen slaves, sweating in their drab tunics, looked up briefly as I passed.
The corridor ended in a gate to the soldiers’ courtyard. The gate was guarded, but the guards dozed in the midday heat. I slipped past them. In the deep archway a small, iron-bound door hid a stairway. The guard at this doorway was awake, and I was afraid he would question me. But he took the bangle I silently offered as though taking bribes was a regular part of his job.
I had to pick my way carefully down the rough steps in the feeble light from a lamp here and there on the walls. At the bottom of the steps there was a corridor with a row of cells. The jailer was leaning against the bars of the first cell, chatting with the prisoner inside.
“My lady,” the jailer greeted me. Of course, he knew from my clothes that I wasn’t someone’s maid. But I had the feeling he knew who I was—or maybe he only thought he knew? “Did you wish to visit—” He gestured at the prisoner.
I tried to disguise my voice at least with a sort of hoarse growl. “No, I want to see…Show me the place where the Baptizer died.” I held out a bangle.
The jailer looked at the bangle longingly, but he shook his head. Thinking he wanted more, I pulled off another bangle, but he held up his hand. “Keep your silver, lady. I’ll show you.” Taking a torch from the wall, he led me down the corridor.
I held a corner of my shawl over my nose and mouth to filter the foul air. Some of the prisoners slumped listlessly in a corner; others groaned. Some of them stared at me as if they were seeing a vision.
The jailer stopped before the last cell, holding up his torch. He nodded at me. “The holy man was in here.” There was nothing in the cell except a brown stain on the stone floor. “I was going to clean this up, soon as I had a chance,” said the jailer.
Grim as it was, this was not the dark, cramped place I’d expected. “Wasn’t the Baptizer kept in a dungeon?”
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