“Out?” Shlomi gaped at her. “Where are we going?”
“I am going out. You are not. Help me take off this tunica.” Berenike turned and waited.
Shlomi’s hands undraped the long white tunica from her shoulders.
Berenike turned. “Now quickly, I need your clothes. I have a medical problem which requires immediate attention. This morning I felt a burning pain when I passed water. I require an herb from the market, and it must be of the finest quality.”
“But ... it is not fitting for you to go out alone.” Shlomi’s black eyes showed disbelief.
Berenike let anger creep into her voice. “I will be the judge of what is fitting. Now off! Off! I need your clothes. I will not have the whole palace gossiping on my medical condition. And they will—count on it! If I took one of those wretched German bodyguards, he would find out why, and then tongues would be wagging everywhere. Now you will take off your clothes or I will sell you to an Arab!”
Shlomi’s face blanched. She removed her veil, then her hair scarf, then her cloak. Timidly, she pulled her body-length tunic up over her head.
“Quickly!” Berenike said. “Dress me and then find something in my closet to cover up with.”
Shlomi dressed her, then scurried to the closet.
Berenike inspected herself in a large polished brass mirror. It was the best quality, but even so the reflection showed only a dim and distorted image. She had never seen her own face. What a tragedy that others could admire her beauty but she could not. Berenike peered through the veil at her image. The woman in the mirror looked like Shlomi, but could she trust the mirror? The illusion must be perfect, or she would be out of the game forever.
Shlomi returned in the cheapest garment Berenike owned, a sleeping tunic of fine linen with silk ruffles.
Berenike turned in a circle. “Do I look like a slave girl?”
Shlomi nodded, her eyes wide.
“Very well, then. Expect me back in an hour. If anyone asks for me, you will inform them that I am overcome with weariness, that I am not to be disturbed, even if Mashiach himself has the rudeness to appear while I am indisposed.”
Berenike took a few dinars from the coin purse on her dresser and strode to the door. She turned to give one last glare at Shlomi. “Is that clear?”
Shlomi’s mouth hung open, and fear haunted her eyes.
“Is something wrong? Quickly! I need haste.”
“Mistress, you are ... dressed as a slave girl, but ... you walk as a queen.”
Berenike’s heart skipped. Of course. That was foolish of her. A slave girl did not carry herself with her head held high and her shoulders back. A slave girl behaved ... how? She must find the persona of a slave, or she would lose this round of the game. Berenike closed her eyes and called to memory the night Papa died.
Papa had been a man, a real man. A liar, a scoundrel, a gambler, a rogue, a player. In short, a Herod, and the best man who ever lived. The family spent years moving from city to city around the empire, with Papa always one step ahead of angry creditors, always charming new ones with tales of the rewards for his friends on the day he came into his kingdom. Papa could spin stories out of nothing, a warm, funny man, with the charm of a puppy dog, the luck of a fox, and the dazzling beautiful looks of all the Herod men.
Born rich, Papa squandered his inheritance young. When his money ran short, he borrowed and wasted the fortunes of his friends. When his friends ran short, he took charity from his family. When his family ran short, he found honest work as an influence peddler, from which he advanced to fraud, and finally to treason against Caesar. For no good reason at all, he wound up in prison. And from prison, of course, he became the Great King. Papa had the luck of the fox.
As King Marcus Julias Herod Agrippa, Papa built, taxed, entertained, taxed, squandered, taxed, and generally feasted on the very guts of his kingdom with all the cunning he had acquired over a long life of gluttony. Though he had the ill fate to be born and sliced a Jew, he lived the life of a Roman aristocrat.
Despite all this, his Jewish subjects loved him and his Gentile subjects hated him, which only showed that nine parts of the world were fools. Perhaps all ten parts, excepting those few of the family Herod.
Then one day at the age of fifty-four, Papa’s luck finally ran short. He took ill suddenly and made a horrible and dramatic exit from the great game. It had to be arsenic—all the symptoms pointed to it—but nothing was ever proved.
The night he died, Papa’s enemies stormed the palace in Caesarea. Berenike was sixteen and between husbands, so she was living with the family. A mob of evil men surrounded the palace, waving clubs, throwing stones, brandishing torches. The family servants and palace guard fought them off, but it was a near thing. If they had broken through ...
Berenike caught her breath and imagined the scene.
If they had broken through, Berenike and her sisters would have been hauled out in the street, stripped naked, abused by wicked men for sport, and auctioned off as slaves. She would have been bought by some leering, horrible goy who would take her home and subject her to a life of endless misery until she wept for mercy and begged HaShem for death and—
Shlomi gasped and fell on her knees at Berenike’s feet, clutching her.
Berenike looked down at her, annoyed. “Whatever is the matter?”
Shlomi’s eyes glistened. “You ... changed, mistress. You turned yourself into a ... slave. It was horrible! Please, never do that again! I was so ... frightened.”
Excellent, then. She had found the persona she needed. And it would be well to remember that if anyone learned of her pregnancy, this very persona might be her fate.
“Stand back.” Berenike put on the heart of a wretched slave girl and opened the door and walked up the hallway and down the broad stairway and past the leering German guards at the palace door and through the courtyard and out of the gates ... into a world she had never seen before—the world of a servant, alone in the vile streets.
Her heart leaped for joy within her. This would be such fun!
Chapter Thirteen
Hana
* * *
HANA WOKE AT DOV’S FIRST cry. The night was still young. Baruch lay beside her, asleep, unmoved. He was a good man, a kind man. He treated her with tenderness, gentleness. If only he could love Dov, then she would be happy. Yes, then she would be happy.
Hana rolled over and pulled Dov to herself. His fat, eager mouth tickled her, and then ... then, yes, her milk began. She felt the strong tug of his tender lips. It was a good feeling. This child of her body needed her, wanted her, loved her. He was a good child, and her heart felt full with the joy of him. His fine, pale hair smelled of milk and baby sweat and love. Someday, Dov would grow to be a tall man, a strong man, a follower of Rabban Yeshua. A man like his father.
A man like me. The voice whispered from a dark corner of her mind.
Hana flinched. The shade of the wicked man had come back.
He will be a man like me.
Hana clutched at her son. No, she would not allow him to be like the wicked man. Dov would become like his father, Baruch. A good man, a—
I am his father. Baruch has rejected him, and I will have my son.
No. Hana squeezed Dov tighter to herself.
He stopped suckling and cried out.
Hana felt the slow dribble of milk slide down her breast. She stroked Dov’s head softly. “Peace, little bear. Peace.”
Dov found her again and began suckling with greedy joy.
I will have my son and I will have you.
Hot tears formed in Hana’s eyes. No. She would never allow the shade of the wicked man to possess her. Rabban Yeshua would not allow it. The wicked man had done evil to her once, but from that had come a good thing. Dov was a good child, and the wicked man could not touch him. Never, ever, ever.
You filthy woman. You are nothing but a zonah.
Hana blinked against the tears, but many rolled down her cheeks. She was not a
zonah. She was a righteous woman, a follower of the Rabban, a daughter of HaShem. The wicked man spoke lies, and she must not listen. He knew that the way to her heart was through rage. She would not give in to this rage pressing in on her. Never again. She must go to Yaakov the tsaddik, and he would pray the words of peace and silence the wicked man’s voice forever. HaShem would listen to the prayer of the Righteous One, Yaakov, brother of the Rabban.
Long after Dov slept, Hana lay awake, guarding her heart.
Baruch lay sleeping.
Berenike
* * *
At midnight, Berenike stood at her stone table grinding oleander flowers with a stone spoon in a stone bowl to make a pessary. Stone, always stone, in this city addicted to ritual purity. According to the rabbis, stone was not susceptible to any kind of impurity. But the rabbis would not approve of what she was making.
Berenike added water to the crushed flowers a little at a time until the mixture became a wet paste. When it was ready, she put it all on a little square of linen, drew the corners together, and bound it up with fine silk thread. She stared at it for a moment, wondering if the poison would be too strong.
Berenike flinched. She did not know how strong it should be because she did not know how far this pregnancy had advanced. Perhaps because of her daily arsenic dosage, her monthly niddah uncleanness came at irregular intervals, sometimes two or three months apart. She had become sure of her pregnancy only this morning in the bath. Pressing very hard on her belly, she had felt a tiny lump in her womb. In a few weeks it would be large enough for Shlomi to see. Weeks after that, all would see.
Therefore, Berenike must act without hesitation. She regretted giving in to Agrippa’s advances, but regrets now were useless. If she did nothing, her sin would be discovered. But before that, before the scandal could ruin the family’s honor, Agrippa would have her discreetly killed. He was enough of a Herod to kill his own sister—the proof was that he was enough of a Herod to seduce her. She had been a fool to give in.
Now, Berenike had no choice. Yes, it was a sin to poison the child of her own womb, but if she did nothing she would die and the child also. If she wished to live, the child must die. That was a decision any Herod could make instantly.
But she must be careful. The poison would cause her heart to race faster and faster. At the right time, she must pull the pessary out by the thread. If she waited too long, she would be forced to take another poison to slow down her heart. That would be dangerous—two poisons in her body, fighting each other. She must risk it for the sake of the game.
Berenike checked the knot again, tugging the thread to be sure. If it broke, she would have no way to remove the pessary and she would die. The knot held secure. She tiptoed back into her sleeping chamber. Tonight was the new moon, and only starlight filtered in through the windows. Shlomi lay asleep in a small bed, dead to the world. Shlomi always slept deeply—one reason Berenike kept her as principal servant.
Berenike sat quietly on her bed. It was knee-high, constructed of ivory, and outrageously expensive. She pulled her legs inside the blankets and lay back, feeling her heart beating madly. The pessary clutched in her right hand felt damp. Already, its poison was leaking out. She must use it now.
If HaShem did not approve of how she played the game, he should not have made her a woman.
Baruch
* * *
Baruch awoke before dawn, as always. He rolled over to admire Hana. HaShem was good, very good. Not one man in ten thousand had a woman so beautiful. Brother Ari had Sister Rivka, a good woman in some ways, but Baruch did not understand what Brother Ari saw in her. HaShem did not intend that a woman should be too intelligent, nor too bold, nor too opinionated. She was all three, and yet Brother Ari loved her anyway. A fine man, but lacking sense.
Hana lay with her arm around the boy. She loved the boy and that was natural. He was her own flesh. Baruch hooked his arm over Hana, reaching for the boy.
He felt the boy’s hot breath on his fingers. Slowly, slowly, he lowered one finger toward the fat cheek. Closer. Closer.
Contact.
Baruch jerked back his hand, his finger burning like fire. Always the same, every morning. Like fire.
Why, HaShem? I do not hate this boy, but neither do I love him. Why does his very touch scorch me?
But the heavens held silent. It had been so since the birth of the boy. HaShem had closed Baruch’s ears and he could no longer hear the Spirit. The evil man had wounded him, cutting him off from the woman of his heart and the voice of the Spirit.
Baruch closed his eyes against the pain that drove a spear through his heart. Brother Ari had been right and he had been wrong on that day when the boy was born. There was evil in this world—evil incomprehensible—and one could not answer it with any wisdom known to man. If evil had a reason, it would no longer be evil, but merely the natural course of things, like Brother Ari’s electron. This electron was ordained by HaShem and therefore it was good. Evil was not ordained by HaShem. One day, all evil would face the wrath of HaShem, when Yeshua the Mashiach returned to heal the hurts of the world. Let it come, the wrath of HaShem. Let it come quickly.
Baruch felt a deep sigh shudder through him. Soon dawn would arrive. Before then, he must go with Brother Ari to the morning prayers. He kissed Hana’s ear and then rolled out of bed, shivering in the chill.
He dressed quickly in his four-cornered tunic and tzitzit, put on his tefillin and cloak and sandals, took his tallit, and went out into the street. Brother Ari met him on the way and they continued on toward the synagogue in their customary silence. Baruch could not bear to walk in silence this morning. “Brother Ari, you will explain to me again the theorem of this man Gödel.”
Brother Ari gave him a questioning look.
Baruch pressed on. “It is a hard matter, this theorem. I do not think your Gödel was a happy man.”
Brother Ari tugged at his beard. “Perhaps an example this time. Let me think.” They walked in silence for a few paces, then Brother Ari said, “True or false: ‘Brother Baruch cannot prove this statement true.’”
Baruch stared at him. What sort of foolishness was this? “Of course I cannot prove such a thing true. How would I prove it true?”
“Then you have just proved it true, yes?”
Baruch thought for a moment. “Yes, I suppose that I have.” A little shock ran through him. “But ... the sentence says that I cannot prove it true!” He laughed out loud. “Brother Ari, you are making a joke on me! The sentence is not true!”
Brother Ari gave a crafty smile. “So you have proved it false?”
“Yes.” Baruch hesitated. “But ... if the sentence is false, then it is naturally impossible that I could prove it true. As it says. And therefore ... it must be true! But if it is true, then how can I have proved it, since it asserts that I cannot?”
Brother Ari laughed out loud. “You see the paradox? You can prove it neither true nor false. Your logic cannot solve this puzzle.”
Baruch shook his head. “It is a trick, then. A trick of logic. Brother Ari, you are overmuch concerned with this logic. Not all things must be either true or false.”
“No, you are wrong.” Brother Ari gave a deep sigh. “You have not yet understood the depths of the matter. Logic has failed you in this matter, but it has not failed me—because I easily prove it true. You can never prove the statement true. Therefore, it is true. I prove this with no effort, and you understand my proof completely, and yet even with this knowledge, you yourself still cannot prove the statement true or false. And a like condition holds for me and for any man or machine or system of thought or mathematical theory. That is the crux of Gödel’s Theorem.”
Baruch grappled with that for the rest of the walk to the synagogue. Yes, it was all very simple. No, he did not understand it. And yet he did. The thing was very disturbing after all. There was a knot in this thing called logic. For each man, a separate knot. Brother Ari could solve Baruch’s knot, but not his own. And
likewise, Baruch could solve Brother Ari’s, but not his own. Did HaShem also have a knot too hard to solve? No, that was not possible.
They arrived just behind Yaakov the tsaddik and slipped into place. The hot smell of men filled the room. Baruch put on his tallit and closed his eyes and waited.
All was silence for a time. Someone began praying aloud. Others joined in. “Baruch, Attah Adonai, Eloheinu, v’Elohei avoteinu ...” Blessed are you, Lord our God and God of our fathers ...
Baruch loved the words, the cadence of the Amidah, the standing prayer. He had prayed it every day since he became a man and he would pray it until he died. As every day, he waited, but the Spirit did not fall on him today. It had not fallen yesterday, nor the week before, nor the month before. Not since the birth of the boy.
When the prayers ended, Baruch remained standing with his eyes closed, wishing for a touch, just one touch of HaShem. He heard men talking, then an awkward silence.
“Brother Baruch.” Ari put a hand on his elbow. “There is a man here with a boil on his neck.”
Baruch opened his eyes. Of course, there would be someone. Every day, someone.
The man was a stranger, a neighbor of Brother Yosi. A small knot of men had gathered around him.
Baruch stepped forward and the others made room for him.
“My name is called Baruch.”
“My name is called Yohanan.”
Baruch examined the large boil on Yohanan’s neck. It had already begun to fester, its livid red center swollen with pus. Baruch put his hand on the sore.
Other men put their hands on top of his. Brother Ari put his hand on the man’s shoulder. Yaakov the tsaddik came up behind Baruch.
From habit, Baruch waited. The Spirit should come now and tell him what to pray and then he would pray it and the man would be healed. That was the way HaShem had ordained it.
But he was deaf to the Spirit. Because of the boy. Baruch sighed. What had once been easy had become the most difficult thing in the world.
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