The Queen's Handmaid

by Tracy L. Higley

  Simon inhaled and lifted his chin. “Shall we get started, then?”

  So there was to be no mention of what had transpired between them, only this angry coldness. Perhaps that was for the best.

  But if Simon resented Mariamme’s dictate that Lydia be involved, he did not show it. Indeed, by the next afternoon she was set up in the central courtyard where the banquet was to be held with everything she had requested. Three slave girls worked at her direction, transforming the courtyard. Crates of fresh fruits weighted the tables, along with heaps of fragrant blooms and bolts of Eastern silks in colors like precious jewels. A wooden-slatted box of ripe peaches warming in the sun gave off a heavenly scent, tempting her to forget her work and bite into the juicy flesh.

  When Simon appeared, brow puckered at the chaos of the overloaded tables, she laughed. “You must wait. It will come together. I promise.”

  Simon snapped his fingers toward the slave girls, then flicked a hand toward the kitchens. “The girls are needed to prepare food.”

  They trotted out, giggling, until they passed their scowling superior. The first of them turned as she passed Simon and thrust out her tongue toward his back. He ignored their passing.

  Lydia huffed at the reduction of her workforce. “Perhaps I shall retract my promise if I am to have no help!”

  “I will help you.”

  Lydia bit her lip and bent to the flowers. “You are already annoyed that I am involved at all. I do not expect you to attend me like a slave.”

  He came to stand beside her, reached for a knife, and followed her lead in stripping leaves from the lower stems of the white lilies and setting them aside in a glossy pile. His arm brushed hers and did not move away. “I am not annoyed.” The words were given softly, with his attention fixed on the flowers.

  Lydia sighed and set her own knife on the table. “Simon, I must apologize for what happened—”

  “No. You must not.”

  “It was only the fierce way you spoke of Israel, of freedom . . . It . . . it made me feel—”

  “Well, I shall not apologize. You are a pretty girl, admired by everyone from servant to queen, and I am certain you are accustomed to such bursts of admiration.”

  Lydia shook her head. “Have you not met Riva? Or Salome?”

  Simon let out a hiss of derision. “Riva admires only herself. And Salome? Fancying herself as royalty? You are more of a princess than she will ever be.”

  Lydia fought the flush that crept across her throat, glad they worked side by side and he could not see her face.

  “It is obvious the queen both depends on and is fond of you.”

  Lydia rubbed a lily petal between two fingers. “You have also gained much since last we met. The new palace is impressive.”

  “Yes.” He laughed, humorless and clipped. “And I am so well loved here.”

  She turned, still holding the stem, and lifted the bloom to enjoy its scent. “They see only your hardness, Simon.” She waved the flower at him until he looked at her. “Perhaps show them less of your thorns.”

  He smiled and reached for another stalk, his attention on the work. “And more of my petal softness?”

  “Do not pretend you have none. I know you better than that.”

  His hand stilled in mid-reach, then dropped to the table as though he needed it for balance.

  Why had she said such a thing? She did not know him.

  “And this is perhaps one reason why everyone admires you, Lydia. You see the best in us all.” His voice was quiet, the words uttered with a trace of regret.

  She gathered a pile of lilies into her arms and carried them to a massive ebony vase at the end of the table, painted in the Greek style with gold-leafed figures chasing around its girth. She slid the blooms one by one into the vase, arranging them asymmetrically. A nearby bowl of lemons and oranges filled the air with a citrusy freshness, but it was still the peaches that tempted her most.

  “The queen was right.” Simon brought the rest of the lilies. “You have a way with beauty.”

  “I want the banquet to be perfect for Mariamme.”

  “You care for her greatly.”

  Lydia shrugged. “She is a kind and fair mistress.”

  He handed her new stems, and they worked in tandem to fill the vase. “And the boy you are so friendly with—what is his name?”

  “David?” Lydia pushed past Simon to gather the stripped leaves into a pile to be burned. “We have served together for some time now, that is all. It is unwise for staff to form strong attachments, don’t you think? Positions are changed, people let go or moved.” She unwound a bolt of jade silk, letting the fabric pool on the table. “It only causes problems if people become too connected.”

  Simon did not answer.

  She glanced sideways to find him chuckling.

  “I amuse you?”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “I have never met a woman so insistent on remaining alone while at the same time drawing everyone so inescapably to herself.”

  She inhaled, a deep breath to push against the constriction in her chest that was ever present when someone got too close, and grabbed the knife to slash the silk into two equal pieces. “And what about you? Are you still alone? Or have you married since last I saw you?”

  “No. I have not married.”

  She pushed past him, back to the vase. “Why not?”

  “Too much to do.”

  At this, she laughed aloud and the strange tension broke.

  He came to stand behind her, watched as she arranged the fabric into a river of jade, flowing around the vase, then scattered a few of the fallen lily petals across the silk.

  “Breathtaking.”

  The word was whispered against the back of her hair, and it raised a chill across her arms. The sun had fallen lower than the rim of the courtyard, and she shivered in the waning afternoon. “I am glad you like it.”

  “You are cold.” His hand rose toward her arm.

  “A little.” She straightened and reached for the second piece of silk. “But the work will keep me warm.”

  He stepped to the table to survey the effect, then plucked a peach from the crate. “Your efforts are for Mariamme, I know. But you will make me look good in the process, and so I thank you.”

  She smiled. “You see. You are quite capable of good manners.”

  He dipped his head and handed her the fruit. “Perhaps I have only had a fine teacher today.”

  She took the peach from his hand and bit into its softness. She should focus on the great amount of work still to be done, and the banquet only a few hours away. Yes, he could be charming when he wanted to be. But the brusque overseer might have been better. There was something decidedly dangerous about this other Simon.

  The tables were laid with gold-plated dishes and jeweled wine cups. Torches blazed at all corners of the courtyard and threw leafy shadows like masks across the faces of the gathered nobles and their wives. In the light of the tiny oil lamps Lydia had scattered through the flowers and fruits and silks, the tables glowed like midnight rainbows.

  All was ready and the guests were present. She retreated into the corridor, then up the wide front stairs to the second-floor chambers that ringed the courtyard. Mariamme would need assistance to finish dressing and fasten her necklaces. Lydia had neglected her mistress too long in an effort to perfect the banquet.

  She paused on the upper floor to peek over the rail at the scene. Simon was right—she had helped to make his event a success. She smiled and turned to continue to Mariamme, but the voices in the open-doored chamber behind her caught her attention.

  “Well, they must be found, that is all there is. If the prophecies hold any truth, the time is soon upon us.”

  Salome’s voice, low and threatening as always.

  Then Cypros. “But if the prophecies are true, how can we—?”

  “There is always a way, Mother! But we must know what the scrolls say.”

  Lydia’s breath hitched in
her chest and she pressed herself against the wall beside the open doorway.

  Cypros spoke again. “How can you be so certain they were found? That poor young man—he would have said anything to end his agony. Perhaps it was all a fabrication.”

  “No. I have been given to know he spoke the truth. He screamed out the name of Samuel ben Eliezar in Alexandria with his dying breath. If this was not truth, why else would both men I sent to retrieve them have disappeared without a word?”

  “You and your dark voices—”

  “It is those dark voices that will keep your son on the throne, safe from all contenders!”

  A chair scraped across the floor.

  Lydia took a small step away from the door but she could not flee. Not yet.

  “I know the writings are in Egypt. I will do whatever I must to obtain them.”

  “I still do not understand why these scrolls hold any danger for your brother.”

  “Argh! If we are to live and rule among these filthy Jews, Mother, then it behooves you to understand them. Their prophecies speak of a Messiah, a King to rule them forever. And what would happen if these holy writings were brought forth and the people believed them to be written of our boy-priest, Aristobulus?”

  Cypros said nothing, but the sound of both women moving across the room filtered to Lydia.

  “But the boy will not be a problem for long.” Salome was nearly to the door.

  Lydia retreated, back toward the steps she had ascended.

  The women appeared in the doorway, Salome smiling, a cold smile of satisfaction. “After all, I am my father’s daughter.”

  They passed Lydia in the corridor as if she were not there. When they reached the stairs, her breath expelled in a rush, leaving her chest with a hollow ache.

  The scrolls. Could Salome speak of any other than those that were even now secreted in Lydia’s own chamber?

  But it was the words spoken against Aristobulus that sped her feet toward Mariamme’s chamber. The queen must be warned of the danger to her beloved brother. And Lydia could not lose another brother either.

  Leodes was missing from Mariamme’s doorway. The eunuch who had been her personal protector since they came to Jerusalem never left his post. It could only mean that Mariamme had already gone down to the banquet. She must have found another to attend her while Lydia was preoccupied with the preparations. Lydia hurried back to the courtyard, but the festivities had already begun, and it would not be appropriate for her to approach the king and his wife where they dined.

  And there was handsome and open-hearted Aristobulus, ruddy with a bit too much wine already, laughing at the flattery being poured into his ear by a citizen of Jericho on one side and the pleasantries of Herod himself on the other.

  Lydia took a breath to steady her racing pulse and nodded to herself. All was well with the royal family, and there would be time to speak to Mariamme when the guests had departed.

  She busied herself in the kitchens, not because she was required, but only to distract herself from Salome’s strange and frightening revelations. There were platters to be fixed into more pleasing arrangements before they were carried in an endless parade from kitchen to courtyard, and she kept busy as the evening waned. Simon was not to be seen, perhaps for once trusting his kitchen supervisor.

  The evening was still warm, and some of the men slipped from the courtyard at Herod’s insistence that they experience the pleasures of his new swimming pool. The women gathered in little knots of conversation, and servants moved silently through the tables, gathering the remnants of the meal.

  The party atmosphere had quieted when the first scream was heard.

  Lydia’s stomach lurched at the sound. She had never heard Mariamme lift her voice, but it was most certainly her mistress who screamed and screamed again.

  Was the baby come too soon? She had been having some pains of late, and earlier in the pregnancy there had been signs of a possible miscarriage. Lydia dropped the basket of wilted flowers and ran toward the screams, past the clusters of noblewomen who stood with mouths agape.

  Through the south entrance, out into the night air. The screams had come from outside.

  There, there she was. Near the swimming pool. Not doubled over with birth pains but huddled against Sohemus, Herod’s friend and captain of the guard. Mariamme’s face was buried against his chest.

  A group of men, several of them dripping from the pool with hastily tied towels at their waists, huddled in a circle, bent over a prone form.

  The stars swam in the sky above Lydia’s head.

  She took two shaky steps forward, leaned against the air that had grown thick enough to clog her throat.

  Aristobulus, naked and blue, lay at their feet.

  She could not breathe. Could not draw freshness into her lungs. Could not expel the stale air that congealed in her chest like dark blood. A black fuzziness brushed the edges of her vision like vulture wings, and pinpricks of light flashed deep behind her eyes.

  Not again.

  She was eleven and terrified. Wet and cold and near drowned herself. Screaming and screaming.

  Her legs collapsed, too lifeless to hold her upright.

  “Lydia.”

  The ground did not rush up to meet her. Only a pair of solid arms around her middle, the scrape of a stubbled jaw against her cheek, the smell of smoke and spice.

  She struggled in his arms. Thrashed out against the slippery Nile reeds that would drag her to the bottom. Gagged on river water.

  “Sshh, Lydia, you are safe.”

  Pressed against him, she beat her fists against Simon’s chest, and the air returned to her own. “Not again!” Her body shook with the wet chill, her teeth rattling against her skull.

  Simon swept her up and carried her into the palace.

  She half sensed the rush of banquet guests past her, the deserted courtyard, the smallness of Simon’s private office.

  He set her in his chair with a jarring thump, disappeared, returned in a moment with a coarse blanket and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders. “You have had a shock.”

  Her teeth still tapped a frantic beat and her body convulsed with sobs she could not control. Simon pulled her into an embrace and ran brisk hands across her back to warm her.

  “Wh-what happened?”

  “I do not know. Apparently there was some horseplay in the pool. Men dunking each other under the water and the like. No one noticed him in trouble.”

  She shook her head, the motion jerky and stilted. “No. No, it was not an accident.”

  Simon put two fingers over her mouth and his eyes said enough. Do not repeat such a thing.

  She shook off his touch and whispered to herself, to the floor, to the gods. “I am a worthless servant. What good have I ever been to anyone?”

  Simon clutched at her hands. “Lydia. Lydia, look at me.” He sat back into a squat before her chair. “I know you cared greatly for him.” His deep, gray-flecked eyes were sad but quizzical. “Or was it someone else? You said ‘Not again.’ Were you reminded—?”

  “It was a long time ago.” She brushed the hair from her eyes, from her tear-soaked cheeks.

  He nodded, as though the explanation was enough.

  It would have to be.

  She should have warned Mariamme as soon as she heard Salome plotting.

  The shivering returned, along with the suffocating feeling of the weight of river water against her chest.

  She had thought to give Ari the scrolls. But now he was gone. And it had been her fault.

  Once again it had been her fault.

  Twenty-One

  Salome should have known they would be forced to return to Jerusalem with the boy’s body.

  There was no question of Aristobulus being buried anywhere but in the tomb of his fathers, and the preparations for the journey began even before the last banquet guest had departed.

  Ah well, the would-be king would not return to his city with the same sort of fanfare under which
he had ascended the hill to the Temple the week before.

  Salome directed Riva to gather her clothes and jewels for the journey, but only she herself was permitted to pack and store her elements of worship for her patron goddess, Al-Uzzá.

  The caravan left the following day, with Mariamme and Alexandra sitting white lipped and silent in the chariot of mourners, the body under wraps and hidden from the sun, pulled behind on a wheeled cart.

  Salome rode with Herod and their mother, discussing their next action in tones quiet enough to be mistaken for grief. It was agreed that Ananel should resume his post as High Priest. The people would feel some satisfaction in his restoration.

  But the satisfaction she should have felt in having the contender to the throne removed evaporated before the family’s seven days of mourning had even ended. A letter arrived, a messenger from Syria with word from the Roman Marc Antony.

  Herod was to join him on the battlefield at once, to explain the death of the High Priest in his personal swimming pool.

  In their mother’s private chamber, Salome paced beside the open window that faced west over the city. Fiery shades of sunset slashed the sky and lit the roofs of houses. Despite the holiday in Jericho, the scrolls were never far from her mind. She must have them, must make them hers to decipher to understand when and where this Messiah would appear. Or perhaps was even now among them. Once she had this knowledge, she could destroy him, and with him, the hope of a thousand zealots who would see the kingdom ripped from her family.

  Across the room, Herod crumpled the letter and threw it across the room. “How could he possibly have heard so quickly?”

  Salome stopped her pacing and shot her brother a chilly look. “Surely you are not such a fool.” She raked a hand through her hair, loosening its tight binding. “It is that simpering wife of yours and her monster of a mother. They are determined to use Cleopatra’s hatred to poison your friendship with Antony.”

  Herod growled low in his throat. “I should have kept that woman under lock and key despite the mourning period. Sohemus would have made certain Alexandra never wrote another letter.”