The Queen's Handmaid

by Tracy L. Higley

  She was going to be sick.

  Mariamme held a chamber pot while she heaved. Then summoned a servant to bring wine and a rag dipped in cool water for her face.

  All these years. For so long she had waited to see Caesarion again, each year imagining him as he must be, taller and stronger, smarter and more confident. He was so young.

  “Why?”

  It was the only word she had spoken since the news, and it rasped out of a raw throat.

  Herod smirked. “He said something about one Caesar in Rome being enough.”

  Why had she thought it would be any different? Octavian could never allow the biological son of Julius Caesar to return, when his own sonship was a posthumous adoption, in name only.

  “And you, our little mixed-blood princess.” Herod’s cool gaze fell on her where she sat beside Mariamme. “It would seem you are not needed to rule Egypt after all. But my suggestion has been well received by Caesar, and I am to give you to him immediately, for his general Agrippa. You will unite Egypt, Rome, and Judea with one marriage.”

  “Give me to him?” Did Herod think she was his to dispense, like gold plate from his treasury? “I . . . I cannot grant an answer right now.”

  Herod’s eyes widened. “What do I care for your answer? Besides, what is here for you?”

  Nothing. There was nothing here for her. Not the Chakkiym. Not Simon. And nothing for her in Egypt.

  She fled the throne room, through the courtyard, past Simon’s office, and then stopped.

  She could not agree with Herod’s plan until they had one final conversation. Simon had made it clear in his actions that she was no longer part of his life. He served her as any other palace staff would serve, with eyes downcast and a deferential voice. But she needed to hear it. To hear him speak the words.

  He looked up at the sound of her sandals, then jumped to his feet, knocking a quill and some scrolls to the floor.

  She tried to smile. “My apologies for startling you.”

  He waved a hand at the mess without taking his gaze from her. “It is nothing. Is there something I can do for you?”

  She leaned against the door frame. “No. I—we have not had a moment to speak privately of late. I only wanted to see how you are.”

  “How I am?”

  The words sounded foolish now. She took a deep breath, steadied her hand against the door. “There has been news from Rome. Antony and Cleopatra are dead. And Caesarion.”

  Simon was at her side in a moment. “Lydia. Oh, Lydia, I am so sorry.” He reached a hand toward her, then let it drop.

  A few beats of silence and Lydia felt the familiar constriction in her chest.

  “Caesar and Herod want me to marry the Roman, Marcus Agrippa.”

  “And what do you want?”

  The silence deepened. It had been an impertinent question, given their stations, and they both knew it. But she desired only to respond with truth.

  “I . . . I do not know. I told Herod I could not give an answer yet. I think sometimes it would be better—”

  Simon’s voice was steady, even cold. “He will make a good husband, I should think. You should give an answer quickly. Soldiers are not accustomed to being patient.”

  “Is that what you want? Do you want me to marry him?”

  He took a step back. “My lady, I am the manager of the king’s Jerusalem palace. I should not think my opinion in this matter holds any weight.”

  She pushed forward, closing the space between them, her gaze on his face—the hard lines, the muscles twitching in his jaw. “It does hold weight with me.”

  His posture straightened and he trained his eyes to look over her shoulder, as though she were not a breath from him. But the cords of his neck were strained, and his hands were fisted at his sides. He swallowed hard. “Then marry him, Lydia. Marry him, and end my suffering.”

  The pain in his voice took her breath away. A dangerous warmth spread through her, mixed with a dawning pity. She had not known. Or perhaps she had. She touched his arm with her fingertips, but he jerked away as though burned.

  “Simon.” She whispered his name, but he would only look at the doorway.

  “I will say this only once, Lydia. And then we must not speak again.”

  She nodded, silent.

  “What was once between us cannot exist any longer. If you still care anything at all for me, you will marry Agrippa. It is the only way I can let you go.”

  As Sohemus had let go of Mariamme? What proof was there that creating the bond of marriage would dissolve all other bonds?

  “Marry Agrippa and go to Rome, Lydia.” His eyes found hers at last, unshed tears sparkling on his lashes. “I am begging you to set me free.”

  When Mariamme found her in her chamber an hour later, Lydia wiped her eyes with the handkerchief her friend offered.

  “What did Simon say about your impending marriage?”

  Lydia glanced sideways at Mariamme, but her expression held no judgment. Only pity.

  Mariamme smiled sadly. “Do you think I have not seen how much he means to you? Every day you grow nobler, more royal. But also sadder.”

  Lydia exhaled heavily. “He told me once that he loved me. He will not say it again.”

  Mariamme pulled up a chair and sat beside Lydia, clasping her hands. “You must avoid him, Lydia. You must do all you can to stay away. Trust me.”

  The way that she said trust me was an opening she had never given Lydia. “Is it still Sohemus? Do you—have you—?”

  Mariamme’s hands clenched involuntarily on Lydia’s. “I have done nothing, nor will I. But it has only grown more difficult as the years have passed. I have urged him to marry, but he refuses.” She shook her head, studying the floor. “Strangely, Herod must suspect nothing, for he continues to have Sohemus as my guard. With his jealousy, Herod never would have done so if he had any idea of Sohemus’s feelings for me.”

  “Or your feelings for him.”

  Mariamme stood and paced. “We should not speak of it. It only makes it more difficult.” She stopped and turned on Lydia. “That is why I tell you to trust me—you must remain distant from Simon. You know it is impossible to be together in the way that you wish, and no good will come of being near him in any other way. You will think you are only assuring yourself of his love or trying to ease his pain, but it only makes it harder, until you fear that your worst instincts will overwhelm you—”

  She cut off with a sob, and Lydia went to her and embraced her.

  How long she had suffered. Only her goodness and piety, and that of Sohemus, kept them both chaste and yet in pain. Herod could take as many slave girls to himself as he liked, and yet Mariamme must be denied the only man she loved.

  Mariamme was right. She must remove herself from this place, from Simon.

  Her time in Rome years ago had been too short, and it was an amazing city. Perhaps she could be happy there.

  Nothing had turned out the way she had expected. Her destiny had not been the scrolls, nor even Jerusalem.

  Perhaps it was time to let it all go.

  Thirty-Three

  Salome sat cross-legged on the floor with a circle of tiny oil lamps flickering around her and incense burning in the center. She swayed gently with the warmth and the spicy scent and the half-drowsed lethargy she had fallen into.

  Her mind was open, her palms spread before her. Let the goddess fill her with knowledge now, for she needed answers.

  For years she had not felt this oppression, this blocking of her powers to control the lives and fates of those around her, even though she had been unable to worm her way between Herod and his precious Mariamme, to open her brother’s eyes to the woman’s unworthiness.

  But the peace had ended the day Salome faced down that servant-turned-royalty, Lydia.

  Just as before, when Salome had tried to destroy the girl’s mind in the storeroom, she had found Lydia protected. But not as before, for the protection was even stronger now, and it came from within
the girl, not merely from without. Although she seemed yet unaware of her own power.

  Salome breathed deeply of the incense and fought to keep her limbs relaxed, her hands open. What was it about the girl? Why was she important? A Ptolemy and a Hasmonean, yes. But there had to be more than this.

  She whispered yet another prayer to the goddess for wisdom. For the power to defeat her enemy. For Lydia was her enemy, there could be no doubt.

  A scuff at the door opened her eyes.

  “What is it?”

  Riva’s pale face appeared in the crack of the half-opened door.

  Salome growled. The girl was useful as a handmaid chiefly because she had no scruples. But she had little sense either. “You are interrupting!”

  “I am sorry, my lady. I . . . I have heard something I thought you would want to know.”

  She sighed. “Enter. Say it.”

  Riva slipped into the chamber, closed the door behind her, and leaned against it as though she feared to come closer. “It is about Lydia.”

  Salome hid a smile. Riva was no happier than she about Lydia’s elevation in status and refused to call the girl anything but her given name. “What of Lydia?”

  “She sent for some men to come to the palace and speak with her. Rabbis.”

  Salome narrowed her eyes. “Why would she seek rabbis? I have seen little of the faithful Jewess in her.”

  Riva ducked her head. “When they came and met with her in a private chamber, I hid at the door and listened.”

  “Well done, then, Riva. And what did you discover?”

  “She asked many questions, though she got few answers. They did not seem to know much about the knowledge she sought.”

  Salome waited, resisting the urge to get up and shake the girl.

  “She asked about the writings of the prophet Daniel. About the copies that are held in the synagogues, but of other writings as well. Secret writings that have been lost.”

  Salome’s lips parted and she scrambled to her feet.

  “She also asked if they knew where to find a certain group. She called them the ‘Chakkiym.’ ”

  Salome’s breath was coming short and shallow now—a mixture of surprise, elation, self-chastisement. How had she not seen it? All these years?

  “Go, Riva. Go at once and search Lydia’s chamber. Do not return until you have found something hidden. Scrolls, most likely.”

  At Riva’s hesitation, she pointed. “Go!” Then called the girl back. “Be smart. If you are caught, do not expect me to take up your cause.”

  The girl fled, and Salome lowered herself to the lamp-lit circle once more, held her palms aloft, and closed her eyes in gratitude.

  Of course. Of course it was her. Lydia had been in Egypt all those years ago when the seeker came here looking for the Chakkiym, and Salome had tortured him to reveal that the writings had been found in Alexandria. She had sent two of her best to find them and received only one message—that the first of her men was dead and the second following the scrolls to Rome. Then nothing more.

  All of those years, Lydia had been in this very palace, the scrolls hidden somewhere. How could Salome not have seen it? A fiery hatred flamed through her limbs. She had focused her dark energy on Mariamme, but she had been blind. It was Lydia—the keeper of the scrolls—who was her greatest enemy.

  She felt a power filling her, entering as she breathed deeply, filling her chest and her mind, running like silver down her veins to quench the fire and turn her hatred to stone.

  It was time. Time to solidify the power of the Herodian family in this place. To rid themselves of the Hasmoneans for all time.

  Her attack would be double pronged. She would destroy both Lydia and Mariamme.

  She had been holding on to a valuable piece of information for many years, waiting for the right time to make use of it. And it would only take a few well-placed words in the ear of her jealous brother to complete her task.

  In spite of his fixated jealousy, he had been a blind fool. Debasing himself before his Jewish wife, groveling for her love while the ungrateful girl kicked dust in his face. Trusting implicitly the one man who was his greatest enemy. It was time to bring it to an end.

  Lydia would die. But first, Herod would soon know that his closest friend, Sohemus, was in love with his wife.

  Lydia spent the evening in her bedchamber. In her bed.

  Perhaps she was ill. Since the encounter with Simon, nothing seemed worth rising for, not the evening meal nor Mariamme’s coaxing.

  And when the morning dawned with its pale winter sunlight, she rolled away from the window and wept.

  By evening, Mariamme insisted that she walk with her in the courtyard for fresh air and then join the family in the dining room. Lydia complied with a few turns around the peristyle at the courtyard’s perimeter, then hovered in the doorway of the still-empty dining room.

  Mariamme sighed. “Would you rather have food sent to your room?”

  Lydia smiled, grateful for her friend’s understanding heart.

  Within minutes she was in the upper corridor, walking slowly to her chamber.

  Was her door ajar? Lydia drew up, a tiny flutter of her heart sending a warning. The scrolls were well hidden but were never far from her thoughts.

  She took a few silent steps toward the door, then slid into the opening.

  “Riva!” She blurted out the girl’s name without thinking.

  Riva whirled, her eyes wide and hand suspended above a near-empty basket of clothing. Its contents were piled on the floor beside it.

  “I . . . I thought you were at dinner.” Riva bit her lip, then began folding and replacing the clothing.

  “So you thought to borrow a robe?” Lydia arched an eyebrow.

  But at Riva’s silence she glanced around the room and found many other things in disarray. Chairs moved, the bed slightly out of alignment. A favorite painted urn no longer in the corner.

  “You have been searching for something!” The ominous heartpounding was back. But no, Riva’s hands were still empty of the scrolls.

  “Thievery in the palace is a capital offense, Riva. You do know that?”

  The girl’s eyes widened and she stuffed the remaining clothing into the basket. “Please, my lady. I . . . I—she sent me—” Riva cut off and twisted her hands at her waist.

  Salome. Salome had sent Riva to search for something. Had she somehow learned of Lydia’s hidden treasure? What did Salome know of Daniel’s secret writings?

  “To search for what, Riva? What were you to bring?”

  Riva’s eyes flicked between fear and defiance. It must have maddened her to find herself at Lydia’s mercy after all these years. But Lydia would use the fear to her advantage.

  “Perhaps if we had this discussion before Herod—”

  “A scroll.” Riva looked away. “She said to find a scroll.”

  Lydia would push Riva further, find out how much Salome knew. But as she opened her mouth for another question, a horrible scream tore the nighttime quiet of the palace.

  She and Riva traded confused glances, then Lydia ran into the corridor and overlooked the courtyard.

  Below, Mariamme was running toward the throne room.

  Lydia called over the balcony, “What is it? Who is screaming?”

  Mariamme glanced up but kept running. “It is Leodes. Herod is torturing him in the throne room!”

  Leodes? Why would Mariamme’s favorite eunuch have fallen out of favor with Herod?

  Or was it only information that the king sought? Secrets that palace staff often held closely, with their royal counterparts unaware how much they knew.

  Lydia pulled Riva from her room into the corridor. “If I find anything disturbed, anything missing, I promise I will tell Herod that you have stolen from me.”

  Riva shook her head. “I swear, my lady.”

  Lydia left her still shaking outside the door and ran for the throne room.

  Mariamme reached the throne room as yet another
shriek of pain ripped through the palace air. She burst through the doors and took in the scene. Herod, standing over Leodes. Leodes, barechested and on his knees, head bent. One of Herod’s guards with a Roman scourge, laced with bits of glass, hauling back for yet another strike against her poor servant’s back.

  “Stop!” She ran toward the three, seeing Salome in the shadows at the last moment, with a satisfied smile. “What is this?” She scowled at Herod. His face gleamed with a predatory glow of sweat. “How dare you beat my servant without my permission!”

  “Ah, there she is.” Herod’s eyes sparked. “Stay here, my sweet wife. Perhaps you shall be next.”

  Mariamme took a step backward, an unfamiliar fear pounding against her chest. “What is the accusation against this man?”

  Herod flicked his head toward the guard with the whip.

  He raised it above his head, then cracked it against Leodes’s back. The flesh tore and blood bubbled along the line of it.

  Mariamme cried out and reached toward Herod. “He has done nothing. He is a good man!”

  “Precisely why I chose him.” Herod’s brow was knit together now, in anger or suspicion, she could not tell. “If anyone should know the truth about this potion, it would be him.”

  Mariamme shook her head, looked to Salome and back to Herod. “What are you talking about?” Behind her, the palace doors opened again. She glanced back to see Lydia slip in, her face concerned.

  “You deny it, then? Mazal has told me everything.”

  Mariamme faced her husband again. “Mazal? Your cupbearer?”

  “Oh, you wear the face of deceit well, my Mariamme. But Leodes will tell me, won’t you, Leodes? Who was it for, this love potion that my wife asked Mazal to create?”

  “Herod, you are mad!” She drew his attention from Leodes. At least then the lashing paused. “When have I ever had dealings in potions?” She eyed Salome, still skulking in the shadows. “That is more your sister’s realm!”

  But Herod would not hear her. “Come, Leodes.” He directed the guard to bring another lash across his bleeding back, but his eyes never left Mariamme. “Surely you know everything my wife does, even in secret. You hear all her whispers and treasons. How she hates me.”