“I could have told you this would happen,” said Gundi. I was too let down to be angry with her. I couldn’t believe this was the end of my day of hope and fear. I couldn’t even whirl on my heel and stalk back to the docks, because the crowd was so tightly packed.
Now the men behind me were talking about John’s death. As I listened, I realized that they hadn’t believed a word of Antipas’s official explanation, announced and posted throughout Galilee and Perea. Probably no one had believed it.
Both the men obviously knew the story of John’s death, and they rivaled each other to give the juiciest details. “And that she-demon Herodias was determined to kill him, so she ordered her slut of a daughter—”
“—to dance for Antipas—and a whole hall full of men!—stark naked—”
It wasn’t like that, I wanted to tell them. But it was quite a bit like that.
“They say the guard didn’t strike hard enough with the sword the first time, so—”
Gundi gave me a frightened look, and she motioned with her head back toward the docks. I felt sick and sweaty. I wanted badly to get away, but the crowd hemmed me in.
“—and when they brought that little slut the holy man’s head, she kissed it on the lips!”
“No!” The word burst out of my mouth. I didn’t dare to turn around. My heart thudded, and I thought, Now they’ll guess who I am. Will they spit at me? Stone me?
Probably the people outside the assembly hall only wondered what was the matter with that Greek maid. The men behind me didn’t know I was Herodias’s “slut of a daughter” in their story. But I felt my guilt was as clear as if I held the silver platter in my hands again.
“Mad to come to Capernaum!” muttered Gundi. “Without any escort whatsoever—without even litter bearers!” Hauling me by the wrist, she struggled through the crowd.
Frantically I tried to push after her downhill toward the boat. But it was like trying to run through a deep pool in the baths. My steps were nightmare slow. I heard mutters around me. No doubt they were saying only, “Watch who you’re shoving,” but to me it sounded like, “Murderer!” My wrist slipped from Gundi’s sweaty hand, and I lost sight of her.
I was panting with fear by the time a woman in front of me seized my arms. In my blind panic, it took me a moment to hear her saying my name. “Salome. Eirene, peace, Salome.”
TWENTY-FIVE
A SECOND CHANCE?
I knew this woman. “Joanna,” I said slowly. Although I’d been looking for her, I was amazed to see her. She was truly healed. There she stood, confident on her feet even in the jostling crowd.
Joanna looked quite different standing upright. And the lines of strain were gone from her face.
“Don’t be afraid, Salome. Come this way, out of the crowd.”
I followed her into a side street, and we sat down on a low wall. “Did you come to hear Rabbi Yeshua?” she asked.
I nodded. “Is he…John the Baptizer come back to life?”
“No.” Her eyes searched my face. “You were hoping…” She looked unutterably sad, and I realized with a shock that she was reflecting my own sadness. It really was that bad. I was a murderer, as the red letters painted on the shrine had told me. Nothing could change that.
“But still, there’s hope,” Joanna rushed on. “I know why people are saying he’s the Baptizer, because he’s carrying on what the Baptizer began. Oh, Salome! I wish you’d heard the Rabbi. It’s not just what he says; it’s him. But today, maybe it doesn’t matter that you didn’t hear him. Maybe the important thing was for me to hear his message and finally take it in. Now I can pass it on to you.”
I didn’t understand what Joanna was talking about, but I was content to sit with her. I’d missed her so much.
“Yes. It must be that you and I met today for a purpose,” Joanna went on. “Because I was sure I’d never forgive you. I thought I was right to hate you. Even when I heard that you’d repented, I hardened my heart toward you.”
“But I didn’t repent,” I said. It hurt me to say so, but I had to be honest with Joanna. “Leander thought I’d repented, and I suppose he spread it around, but it’s not true. I only did some things you would have done in Tiberias if you hadn’t left.”
Joanna gave me an odd look. “My dear silly Salome, what do you think ‘repent’ means? But never mind!” she rushed on. “Before anything else, I want you to know”—her voice shook, and she swallowed as if she were tasting bitter medicine—“I want to take back the cruel words I said to you last time we met. Then, I wanted you to suffer.” Taking my hand, she looked into my eyes. “I see that you are suffering, Salome.”
She was speaking straight to my heart. I trembled, and tears burned my eyes.
“The Rabbi says we have to forgive each other,” said Joanna. “Do you understand?”
I wanted to—I strained to understand—but I didn’t. I shook my head.
“It’s because the Lord is so merciful to us. That’s what Rabbi Yeshua says. He says we can’t receive the Lord’s mercy unless we’re merciful to others.” She smiled, as though it were a delightful joke on us. “It’s true! I’ve felt it.”
“Is that how you were healed?” I asked wonderingly.
Joanna looked puzzled, then smiled again. “You mean, of my wasting illness. No. The Rabbi just—” She laughed, holding out her hands palms up to show bewilderment. “Blessing after blessing! This man scatters blessings around like a sower scattering grain.”
Joanna talked on eagerly, telling me about the amazing things that happened in the presence of Rabbi Yeshua. One of his disciples, a woman named Mary, had urged Joanna to ask the Rabbi for healing. “Mary said she was tormented by demons for years before she met the Rabbi. I could hardly believe it—she’s so peaceful now. But I do believe, because here I am.” She laughed and stamped her feet to show how well they worked.
Joanna said she was staying with Mary in Magdala, another town on the shore of the lake. When I told her how crushed Chuza was that she’d left him, she shook her head. “I tried to tell him. I tried to get him to come with me to hear Rabbi Yeshua. But Chuza is so devoted to the Tetrarch, he can’t see anything else.” She gave a sad laugh. “He’s married to Antipas, not to me. Thank the Lord, I have an inheritance, so I don’t need to live on the Tetrarch’s accursed land any longer.”
We sat in silence for a moment. I felt dazed and very tired, but peaceful.
Joanna asked, “What about you, Salome? You’re to marry Philip of Gaulanitis, aren’t you?”
“Philip went back across the lake to his lands.” Turning to her, I burst out, “Let me come to Magdala with you!”
“Oh, my dear.” Joanna looked at me tenderly. “I would be so glad if you could follow the Rabbi with me. But the Tetrarch wouldn’t let you go: he’d send soldiers to bring you back. That would be very dangerous for Rabbi Yeshua and his friends, and it wouldn’t do you any good.” She hesitated, looking away. “Also—I know the Rabbi could forgive you for his cousin’s death—he could do anything. But I’m afraid it might be asking too much…Some of the Rabbi’s followers used to be John’s disciples.”
“Yes, I see,” I said in a shaky voice. What I saw, in my mind’s eye, was myself forever holding the platter with the gruesome evidence. Being forgiven didn’t mean that I hadn’t caused the prophet’s death. Maybe, in years to come, the story of the Baptizer’s death would be the only thing that anyone remembered about me. “I’m an accursed Herod; that’s my fate.”
Silently Joanna took my hand again and held it, sharing my heavy sadness. After a moment she said, “Take heart, Salome. I believe you can still turn your life around. Philip isn’t a ‘Herod,’ not in the way you mean. When you’re the wife of a kind and just ruler, you’ll have the power to do much good. How I’ve wished that Chuza had been Philip’s steward instead of Antipas’s!”
Joanna had a vision of me, or rather of how I could be. I strained to see her vision, so far from my own idea of myself. “You sound
as hopeful about Philip as Herodias—she wants me to write him a ‘friendly letter’! I’m sure he doesn’t want me for his wife now.”
Joanna’s eyebrows went up. “Did he say so? Everyone seemed to think he liked you very much. Did you tell him how you came to dance at the banquet?”
I gazed at her, too surprised to answer. I hadn’t even thought of trying to explain to Philip. I hadn’t thought it would make a difference. While I was puzzling, I noticed Gundi hurrying toward us from the main street. “Miss Salome,” she called in an outraged tone, “the boat has left without us.”
I’d forgotten about Gundi. All this time she’d been looking for me—and fearing, I realized, that I’d been torn apart by the crowd. If anything happened to me while she was escorting me, of course she’d be harshly punished. Without thinking, I said something I’d never heard an owner say to a slave: “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry won’t mend broken eggs,” Gundi snapped. Then it sank into her what I’d just said, and she stared at me, openmouthed. I giggled, and so did Joanna. If the followers of Rabbi Yeshua always laughed this much, I thought, it would be worth following him just for the fun.
“You’d better go now,” said Joanna. “Storms can come up on the lake in a hurry.” She walked down to the docks with us and helped me find another boat back to Tiberias. Joanna and I hugged, promising to write.
On the way home, a letter—not to Joanna—began to form itself in my head:
To Philip, Tetrarch of Gaulanitis, from Salome, ward of Antipas and daughter of Herodias, greetings.
Joanna was right: my best chance to escape being a “Herod” was to marry Philip. What if he wouldn’t marry me? He must. If somehow, by any means, I could get him to marry me, then I could turn my life around later, when I was safely in Caesarea Philippi.
But no. I had to start turning my life around now, with this letter. I knew exactly the kind of letter Herodias wanted me to write, full of flattery and tantalizing hints of passion. But I would not write Philip that way. I would tell him straight out what had happened the night of the banquet, with no excuses. And I would humbly ask to begin my new life—by sharing it with him.
TWENTY-SIX
BEYOND TRAGEDY
The next morning I labored with pen and ink and papyrus to explain myself to Philip. I didn’t try to justify myself, but I asked for his understanding. I told how Antipas had stalked me and of my scheme to escape Tiberias and return to the Temple of Diana. I told him how Herodias had first terrified me before the banquet and then, after my dance, appealed to my pity as her daughter. I described how it had seemed right, at the time, to use my moment of power as Herodias demanded.
At the end of the letter, I begged Philip’s forgiveness. I admired him as a just ruler and wished to share his life. I would be honored and grateful, I wrote, if I could become his wife after all.
When the letter was rolled and sealed, I went to the palace office and gave it to Leander. “Will you put this in the pouch when the courier leaves for Gaulanitis?”
“Of course, Miss Salome. May I take the liberty of saying, I’m happy for your good fortune, that you’ll escape to Philip’s realm. Although I’ll be sorry to give up your company.”
“Thank you,” I said, embarrassed. I suppose it was obvious why I was writing to Philip. “But what makes you so sure that Philip still wants me for his wife? Or that he’ll believe that I want to turn my life around? Did you know that Herodias sent him an indecent picture of me?”
Leander swallowed a smile. “Yes, I knew about that, but I don’t see how it would hurt. Philip may be a just ruler, but he’s also a human being. Who could blame him for choosing a beautiful wife?”
I wasn’t convinced, but I felt a little more hopeful.
As I went back to my room, my thoughts turned to Leander. It seemed that there was no end to repentance. Again and again, I found myself seeing other people in a new light. I realized now that I had the power to release Leander from his bondage. Why hadn’t I understood this before? Probably, I was ashamed to admit, because I selfishly didn’t want him to leave.
After selling a few of the costly knickknacks from my room, I sought out Leander again. I found him in the library, sitting on his favorite bench under the east windows. I remembered the first time I’d spoken to him, in the atrium of our house in Rome. “What are you reading, secretary?” I asked.
“Miss Salome.” Rising to bow to me, Leander answered, “I’m re-reading Aeschylus’s tragedy Agamemnon. It’s about a king murdered by his wife.” He paused, then added, “In this play, the whole royal house is under a curse.”
I nodded. The palace of Herod Antipas was a fitting place to read such a play. “And what about philosophy—are you still studying philosophy?”
“I’m through with philosophy,” answered Leander. He gave a bitter laugh. “‘How shall I live?’—what a useless question. That, and a gold aureus, will buy me passage to Alexandria.”
I felt such tenderness for Leander. I no longer wished to be alone on an island with him—I only wished him well. “You don’t need to stay here reading tragedies unless you want to.” I held out a small drawstring bag. “For your third sister’s dowry and your voyage back to Alexandria.”
Astonished, Leander felt the weight of the gold coins in the bag. “I shouldn’t accept—”
“Please,” I insisted. “You’ve been a good friend to me. It would make me glad to think of you in Alexandria. I don’t think you should give up philosophy. This is how I think you should live: I think you should go back to Alexandria and teach philosophy.”
Leander bowed deeply. He struggled to say something. Finally he muttered, “My heartfelt thanks.”
Leander left the next day with a caravan headed for Egypt. I missed him badly, and I fidgeted around the palace, feeling sorry for myself. So this was what I got for repenting—I’d lost my only friend in Tiberias. I tried to distract myself with a new project: arranging for girls’ classes at the shrine to Diana.
Whether that indecent picture of me hurt or helped, Philip arrived at the palace five days after Leander left. The weather was warm as usual, but I shivered as I went to meet him in the smaller garden. I was hardly aware of Gundi, humming a triumphant Freya-Aphrodite hymn behind me.
There stood Philip, looking very serious. I wanted to run right out of the garden, but I forced myself to approach him and greet him. I wondered how I could have been so determined, on his last visit, to ignore him and to rush back to Rome.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” I said. “I was afraid you wouldn’t want a wife who had disgraced herself in front of the whole court.”
“It crossed my mind,” admitted Philip. “But then I thought, I am a Herod, son of King Herod, called the Great. I can do whatever I want!”
I smiled weakly. I’d never expected to hear Philip make that joke.
“You explained yourself in your letter,” Philip continued soberly, “and now I will explain where I stand. I left Tiberias fearing that you were your mother’s daughter, as cruel as you were beautiful. Your letter told of a different Salome, and I had to come back to see for myself. I wanted to look into your eyes and hear it from your lips.”
I felt as naked as the night I’d danced at the banquet. In front of Philip, I was a foolish, selfish girl who’d helped to murder an innocent man. I wanted to cover my face, but I kept my hands at my sides and raised my eyes to Philip’s. “It’s as I wrote in my letter,” I said. “I want to turn my life around.”
“And I want to believe you,” he said. His eyes searched my face with an intimate, yearning gaze, more frightening than Antipas’s lecherous stare had been. I trembled like a criminal before a judge, awaiting my sentence.
“Salome,” said Philip tenderly. Taking my hand, he kissed the palm. “Let’s begin a new life together.”
I thought I was going to give a shout of joy, but instead I started to cry. I blubbered that it was only because I was so grateful and happy. That was true, but
I was also crying because I was sad and ashamed.
“Come, come,” said Philip, kissing my wet eyelids. “Enough sorrow! I’ll put my seal on the marriage contract, and then we have an unpleasant task before us: we must celebrate our wedding with Antipas and Herodias.”
Philip was right about the unpleasantness. To start with, I hated giving Herodias the satisfaction of doing what she wanted. She talked as if she’d personally arranged the match with Philip from the beginning. “And isn’t it a stroke of good luck that Agrippa arrived in time for your wedding!”
I’d never liked my uncle Agrippa, Herodias’s brother. His arrival, to take the position of market master in Tiberias, gave me another reason to leave.
Herodias wanted to plan an extravagant wedding feast, and of course she wouldn’t listen to me. I begged Philip to insist on a quiet celebration, one that could take place within a day or so. And one that could be held in the small dining hall off the main garden. How could Herodias even think of holding another banquet in the hall where…?
To me, Herodias’s ability to gloss over that hideous evening was not quite sane. Or was it only a normal trait for a Herod? In any case, if Philip and I had children, I hoped the strain wouldn’t come out in them.
Herodias would have liked to spend weeks (and bags of Antipas’s gold) shopping for my trousseau. But she did the best she could on one market day in Tiberias. I was well supplied with fine linens and silks, costly ointments, a mirror of my own, and all the other accessories a tetrarch’s wife might need. Herodias wanted to buy a trained lady’s maid for me, too, but I asked to keep Gundi instead. She was a self-serving old thing, but I was fond of her anyway. Besides, I’d promised.
Magus Shazzar drew up a joint horoscope for Philip and me. Surprisingly, he pronounced the next day very favorable for our wedding. And the day after that, the stars indicated, was favorable for a journey across the water. Imagine!
The wedding feast was held in the smaller dining hall, as I wished. But even so, Herodias and Antipas managed a showy celebration. For entertainment, there were acrobats and trained monkeys (although no dancers) as well as musicians. Antipas’s famous cook outdid himself, producing three new dishes. Herodias wore her stunning blond wig. Antipas got drunk and joked loudly with Uncle Agrippa about how he and Philip had both married scorpions, mother and daughter. Herodias slapped him playfully.
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