The Queen's Handmaid

by Tracy L. Higley

  She shared his enthusiasm. These months of traveling the land around the capital city, with Samuel’s scrolls still in her sack and her mother’s mysterious pendant around her neck, had only strengthened Lydia’s desire to see Jerusalem, fulfill her destiny, and perhaps even find out who she was. Rome was a memory, and she had determined to leave off thoughts of love and focus on her work and her task.

  She had plied David with questions continually about the history and prophecy of the land of Israel, especially those given by the prophet Daniel, from his place in the empires of Babylon and Persia. More important, she grew every day in her understanding of the One God who claimed Israel as His treasured possession and perhaps would one day claim her, if she would please Him by fulfilling her task. Only one month remained until the Day of Atonement, Yom HaKippurim. Would they all be safe inside the city by then?

  “How many are up there?” Silo had joined Herod at a wooden table, and the two bent over a piece of Egyptian papyrus.

  “My brother Joseph has about two hundred men. They tried to escape to Petra a few months ago, but Antigonus’s men held them off, so Joseph and his men are still there. And about five hundred women.”

  “Five hundred!” Silo’s eyes widened. “By Jupiter, man, what did you need with five hundred women up there?”

  Herod’s voice was tinged with amusement. “I took them from Antigonus when I fled Jerusalem. They were to be part of his payment to the Parthian king Orodes in exchange for his throne.”

  Silo barked a laugh and clapped Herod on the back, hostilities apparently forgotten. “That must have incensed the old goat, eh?”

  Herod shrugged a shoulder in false modesty. “The Parthians used it as an excuse to start looting Jerusalem.”

  Silo shook his head. “When are these Jews going to realize their foolish insistence on retaining their independence is suicidal?” He jabbed a finger at the spread papyrus. “So. Five hundred women.”

  “Only three of any importance, however.” Herod’s gaze lifted toward the front of the tent, as though he could already see them descending in safety. “My mother, Cypros. My sister, Salome, and Mariamme, my betrothed wife.” He shrugged. “And I suppose that witch Alexandra, Mariamme’s mother, ought to be saved if possible.”

  Silo nodded. “Four, then, among five hundred. Though if the battle goes to the heights, the trouble will be finding the correct four. Women all look alike to me.”

  “If the battle goes to the heights.” Lydia spread another carpet, lifted two table legs to unroll it farther, then the other two. Were her hands trembling? She had not feared the encounter in Jaffa, nor the skirmishes in Idumea. Why now, for the first time, was the thought of battle frightening?

  Because it was the true beginning. The start of Herod’s war on Antigonus. There would be no retreat. If they were defeated here at the foot of Masada, the Judean troops would annihilate them down to the last slave. How long would it take their blood to evaporate in this heat? How long until the scrolls would lie buried forever under drifting sand?

  She shook off the black thoughts. Death and chaos might reign outside, but inside the tent she would create beauty and order, and with it bring peace to at least her small part of the huge and terrifying world.

  And indeed, outside the tent when the sun rose the next morning, red and angry on the far side of Masada, death was on the horizon with it.

  The hostile forces clashed early. Untrained Galileans and well-disciplined Romans fought side by side, advancing against the entrenched troops of Antigonus, whose long siege, if Fortuna blessed, had perhaps weakened their resilience.

  Lydia watched from the front of Herod’s tent, the rest of the staff ranged across the sand with her. The battle made allies of them all, and even Riva stood in companionable silence beside Lydia.

  Or perhaps Riva’s silence was born of something else. Herod’s attention toward her had decreased the nearer they came to Masada, and it was Mariamme’s name that was often on his lips.

  The clang of sword on sword reverberated across the desert, but the cursed sand obscured their view. Even here, far from the fighting, all smelled of sand and sweat and blood. Lydia forced her hands to her sides, but they were back at her waist in a moment—tight, grasping fingers that flinched with each battle cry. She tasted nothing but salt, and could not remember when last she ate.

  “They are pushing forward!” David’s voice held the excitement of a boy who wished to be on the front lines.

  How could he possibly know? Lydia stifled an irritated reply. They were all on edge. No need to take it out on him. She had barely slept last night, and her fatigued senses were tighter than the tent lacings.

  But then she could see. Could see that David was wrong.

  Soldiers were crisscrossing up the red cliff, taking one of the three winding paths that led to the plateau. It was too soon for it to be Herod’s men or Roman legionaries taking the fortress. The Judeans had sent soldiers upward, no doubt to put an end finally to those who had forestalled them for a year. Could they hold out long enough?

  Already, the desert was littered with carnage. Impossible to tell who had lost more. The battle spread wide along the base of Masada, condensed to a funnel, then spread wide again.

  The sun rose, hot and deadly, and with it a scorching wind, tangling Lydia’s hair. She dashed it away from her eyes and mouth. Behind them the tent flaps snapped in the wind, sharp cracks that echoed the battle sounds.

  What was happening? The sand and the sun conspired to keep them all in uncertainty. Lydia ran to one of the wagons and climbed atop its bed. Would the height provide a better vantage point?

  The Judeans had advanced. They had pushed much farther from the cliff’s base than their camp. They were closing the gap. If they swarmed forward, taking the plain, how long until they reached Herod’s camp to ensure no survivors?

  Lydia clutched the wagon’s splintered front bench, a wave of dizziness like the undulation of desert heat roaring from her toes to her head.

  Would it end here? Before Jerusalem? Before she learned of her mother and delivered Samuel’s scrolls? Her fear of failure somehow matched her fear of death. It was like sailing across the sea to reach a destination and instead falling off the horizon into nothing. She felt as though she were falling now, pitching forward into obscurity and nothingness. Her vision spotted with the blackness of it.

  “Lydia!”

  David’s voice sounded far off, concerned. Had the battle reached them so soon?

  It was not enemy soldiers, but the desert that rose up to meet her—hard-packed sand that had been trying to kill them all since they began this ill-fated journey.

  Fifteen

  Shouts and running footsteps. The brutal clang of pikes against shields. War cries sounding from a thousand angry throats.

  Lydia blinked and shot up from where she lay.

  “Whoa, slow down.” David’s worried face hovered. His hands pushed her shoulders gently back to the cushion.

  “Have they broken through?”

  David nodded. “It is over.”

  She struggled against him. “We must run!”

  His brow furrowed, then cleared. “No, Herod’s troops have broken through to the base of the fortress. A contingent climbs now with supplies. The rest of the men are returning to camp.”

  The sounds of battle outside the tent—they were victory cries, the pounding of weaponry in jubilation.

  She sighed and relaxed against Herod’s couch. Then glanced at her surroundings. “David, let me stand!” Herod would return any moment. It would not do for him to find her lounging. “I am fine.”

  Indeed, it was only a moment after she stood at David’s side before Herod strode into his tent, flinging armor from his body. He lifted his head to his staff, assembling quickly in a line that cut through the middle of the space.

  “Pack everything at once. We are going up.”

  The line broke, and the tent so recently assembled was again torn apart, defl
ating like a burst wineskin, and packed into wagons and carts.

  It took the better part of an hour to trek the switchback path up the red cliff to the fortress. Herod rode his own horse, its hooves picking over the loose gravel with care, as though he wanted to ride onto the plateau as a conquering general. His personal staff followed at an appropriate distance on foot. Three or four of the women climbed behind Lydia, with Riva trailing, her expression glum.

  Three women, Herod had said. Three women he cared about. Salome and Cypros, his sister and mother. And Mariamme.

  Lydia’s heart pounded with the exertion of the climb, and something more. She had come a long way to serve Mariamme. Would the woman be a tyrant like Cleopatra? As gentle as Octavia? Herod clearly cared for her, but he had said little of her character. He did not seem to think highly of her mother, Alexandra.

  From the height of the cliff the desert stretched to the edges of the horizon, with only rock formations and the Salt Sea to break its silent desolation. They marched without speaking, each lost to his own thoughts.

  But just before breaching the top of the winding path, a shout of welcome rang out and a single man rushed from the lip of the plateau.

  Herod swung from his horse, arms outstretched. “Joseph! How glad I am to see your ugly face!”

  The two embraced, Joseph pulled Herod upward, and a servant caught the reins of Herod’s horse. They followed.

  Chaos reigned on the top of Masada.

  Everywhere men barked commands. Women scattered and clustered, some holding babies, others with bulging pouches. And the noise! How had they not heard this cacophony as they climbed? The hot wind that threatened to send them all over the edge must have torn it from them and flung it skyward, for here among the rock-built ramparts the chatter bounced and echoed and deafened.

  Lydia pushed forward into the enclosure only because others waited on the narrow path behind. Others jostled and edged around her.

  Herod was following his brother Joseph, and where Herod went, his staff followed, so they all walked forward to a large building, crudely constructed from peach-colored stone and mud-brick, near the point of the elongated plateau.

  A guard at the door stepped aside for Herod, but the newly titled king of Judea hesitated, glanced back at his staff. Was it a nervous insecurity in his expression?

  “You”—he waved a finger in Lydia’s direction—“the girl from Egypt. Lydia. Come.”

  She broke from the others with only a glance at David. Herod ducked under the lintel to enter the building and she followed.

  The interior was dimly lit, and it took a moment to make out the figures of two women, one standing and the other seated.

  The woman standing, perhaps about forty years old, sneered at him. “Well, Herod, another few days and we would have shriveled like field grass and blown off the plateau.”

  But Herod’s attention was on the woman still sitting, hands resting in her lap and gaze cast downward. She wore a simple tunic with a light mantle the color of sapphires across her shoulders and a matching blue head covering. When she raised her head, it was Lydia’s face she focused on, not Herod’s.

  So innocent. Somehow, in all these months, Lydia had conjured an image of a woman as sophisticated as Cleopatra, hardened to a polished edge by the intricacies of political life.

  But Mariamme’s lightly freckled skin and wide blue-green eyes held nothing of hardness. Lydia had heard from the staff that Mariamme was a singular beauty, and they had not exaggerated. But the girl had a sweet perfection that went beyond physical beauty, an inner sadness that provoked a strange feeling of protectiveness in Lydia.

  “Mariamme, my beloved.” Herod was at her feet, kneeling, grasping her hands.

  She allowed his touch but did not seem to welcome it. Her gaze was still upon Lydia, and in that tiny slice of a moment as their eyes connected, it was as if the girl opened her heart for Lydia to read, shared all the secrets that perhaps her mother did not even know.

  An invisible thread of connection tugged at Lydia and she smiled, offering her friendship in that instant, seeing the answering smile from Mariamme as it was accepted.

  Herod was glancing back at Lydia, tracing Mariamme’s attention. “Yes, yes, the girl. I have brought you Cleopatra’s finest handmaid, my love. Fit for a queen, she is. Served in the grand palace of Egypt for years, and prized for her way with children. And she is an artisan of some sort—I cannot remember—”

  Mariamme rose, the movement smooth and elegant. She took a step toward Lydia, hands outstretched.

  Lydia met her halfway, returning the handclasp.

  “Thank you, Herod. I am certain she will serve me well.” Mariamme’s voice was serene, like cool water, and quiet.

  Herod scrambled to his feet and circled to stand before her again.

  Lydia took a step backward to allow the two to reunite.

  Herod took Mariamme by the shoulders. “Our time is nearly come, my love.”

  Alexandra cleared her throat and Herod dropped his hands, but not before flinging a withering glance in her direction.

  “We have only to take Jerusalem now. And after this victory they will be at the gates to welcome us, I have no doubt. And then we will be married and you shall sit upon the throne of Judea as my queen.”

  Alexandra snorted. “She is a queen with or without you, Herod. Her Hasmonean blood makes her queen, while your blood is as common as—”

  “Silence, woman!” Herod’s hiss of a command held venom. “I have been granted kingship by right of descent from my father, Antipater, have been declared so by the Senate of Rome, and have earned it on the battlefield. Let me not hear your insults again.”

  Alexandra’s gaze rolled to the ceiling, but she held her tongue.

  Herod turned back to Mariamme, his hands taking hers once more. “It is time, my love. Time to reclaim Jerusalem.”

  Accommodations at the Masada fortress were better than the desert tents, but not much. The sun beat as mercilessly and the wind tore at everything without respite. Lydia assisted Mariamme in packing her things, but there was little to be done in that regard. Instead, it was the supplies for feeding the soldiers and women that required the most work, and Lydia left Mariamme the second morning to help, if only to speed them all toward Jerusalem.

  She paused at the entrance of the large stone building where the provisions were housed and the men ate their meals. A dozen soldiers and a few women packed the room, lining crates with straw. One man, also dressed as a soldier, stood apart with a critical eye and hands on his hips. She crossed the room to him.

  His glance flicked at her and then back to his workers. “Do not tell me those women are insisting on a finer meal today when we are trying—”

  “I am here to help.”

  He looked her up and down. “Help with what, little girl? Have those arms ever carried anything heavier than a platter of figs or an ivory comb?”

  She frowned. “Have I somehow offended you before we’ve even met?”

  He gave a patronizing little laugh and bowed. “My apologies, my lady. I am Simon. It is my job to get every worthless scrap off this plateau, down to the desert, and to the walls of Jerusalem. It is your job, I understand, to keep one woman pretty.”

  “Ah, I see. It is not me you dislike, but only my position.”

  He blinked and scowled. “I did not say I dislike you.”

  It was Lydia’s turn to laugh, and when she did Simon looked at her once more, this time with more interest.

  He was an attractive man, though perhaps ten years older than she. Tall, but with a lean build, skin a bit darker than the average Jew, and wavy dark hair in need of a trim. A day’s worth of stubble clung to his sharp jawline and dark shadows sagged beneath his eyes. Had he slept since they arrived?

  “I am Lydia. The princess Mariamme has no need of me at the moment, and I came to see if I could be useful to you.”

  “The princess? I see the would-be king Herod has you trained already.”<
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  “I spoke of Mariamme’s Hasmonean descent, not her marriage to Herod. But you are part of his troops. Do you not support his kingship? Believe that the Parthian influence must be removed from your land?”

  In response, Simon berated a passing slave girl for moving too slowly.

  The girl jumped at his harsh rebuke, glanced at Lydia with tear-filled eyes, then ran.

  Simon watched her go, then cleared his throat. “I am accustomed to commanding soldiers. I forget how delicately women must be handled.”

  Lydia straightened. “You’ll find me able to take instruction, and to give it. Give me something to do or to oversee. Perhaps you could rest awhile.”

  “Ha!” Simon jabbed a thumb toward the soldiers packing crates. “And you think my men would take orders from a pretty young girl?”

  “Perhaps not, when they are accustomed to . . . you.”

  He turned on her, arms crossed. “I don’t know where you’ve come from, little Lydia, but clearly you do not know much of this world. Nothing is as simple as you seem to think. Perhaps you should run back to your princess and see if she needs her feet washed or a cup lifted to her lips.”

  His condescension stung, but she only nodded and pointed to one of the soldiers. “And you should tell your men that amphorae packed so closely will expand in the heat as we travel and arrive cracked and empty.” She smiled. “But since that is your job, I’m certain you already knew that.”

  She turned and strolled from the building but could feel his gaze on her back.

  Indeed, over the next few days of frantic preparations, as everyone worked to pack crates and saddlebags, to load animals and small wagons, Lydia felt Simon’s glance turn toward her more than once, though she could not understand why. He had made his disdain for her, for Mariamme, and even somehow for Herod, very clear.

  It took days to ready the hundreds of people and their belongings, to bury the dead on the battlefield, and to break down the soldiers’ camps—both Roman and Galilean. No one seemed sorrowful to leave the fortress they had feared would be their tomb, and Herod was heard declaring more than once that enlarging and improving the fortress, even building a palace up here, would be the first of his many planned building projects when he had secured his kingship.