by Angela Hunt
“A Roman legion? In Judea?”
“In Jerusalem. Antony thought it wise, and Herod agreed. If even a hint of trouble arises, Herod will be able to use the legionaries to snuff it out. Rome wants Judea to be profitable and peaceful. They want a king who can keep that peace, no matter how he maintains it.”
“Herod can keep the peace.” I inhaled a deep breath, thinking about how easily he sent his first wife away. My brother had always been pragmatic.
“Still . . .” Joseph hesitated. “The people of Jerusalem suffered greatly under the siege, and many of them lost family members in the slaughter afterward. Many of their homes were burned, their men killed, and their city has been flooded with Gentiles.”
“Herod sent animals for their sacrifices,” I pointed out, “and he paid the Romans to stop looting and to respect the Temple.”
“That news will not help if the people do not believe it,” Joseph said. “And people do not like to believe good reports about their perceived enemy. For even though the Torah says, ‘You are not to detest an Edomite, for he is your brother,’ most of them detest us for reasons that have nothing to do with our forefathers. They see Idumaeans—all of Herod’s family—as puppets, controlled by the Romans.”
I felt a flush burn my cheeks. “My brother is not a puppet.”
“An extension then,” Joseph said. “I do not think you can deny he is a tool in the hand of Rome.”
“Perhaps,” I admitted slowly. “But he is more than one man. He has Pheroras and me. Together we are formidable, just as Father wanted us to be. Rome may think Herod is only a tool to wield, but together we are much more—and we are stronger than they know.”
“Indeed you are.” Joseph smiled, but in his eyes I thought I saw a spark of worry . . . or perhaps fear.
Chapter Six
Zara
After so many days of war, hunger and privation stamped the faces of everyone I knew. Skin sagged, eyes retreated into facial caverns, and mouths went thin. Ima no longer packed a bag for my father, for she had no bread, cheese, or meat to give him.
Abba did not come home at all anymore, and neither did the other men in our neighborhood. We killed and ate our goat, just as our neighbors ate their chickens and lambs. When I asked why we could not go to the market to get more food, Ima said no one could do their usual work, because everyone in Jerusalem was either defending the Temple, carrying water for the fighters, or caring for those who had been injured on the wall.
On a hot summer evening, with little warning, life as I had always known it ended. I did not learn why until Ima told me some of Herod’s soldiers climbed the walls and allowed the Romans into the city. The men who fought with my father—determined, righteous men, all of them—were pushed back to the Temple where they took refuge inside the sacred walls.
But the Romans did not care about the sanctity of the Holy City. Wave after wave of them poured into the streets where they killed any man who stood in their path, even those who threw down their swords and begged for mercy.
“They were angry,” Ima said, her expression vacant. “They said we should have known we were certain to be defeated. They did not believe HaShem would save us.” And then, in a voice so low I could barely hear her, she added, “I cannot believe He did not.”
My father died that day, struck down, so they told me, on the steps of the altar, one of the last men to give his life in the Temple.
After the Romans had cleared the holy sanctuary, they marched into the city where they attacked the crowds jammed into its narrow streets. Many of those who had taken refuge in the Temple and fled when the invaders entered were now trapped between buildings. They fell before the Roman swords—old men, women, children, and babies in their mothers’ arms.
A sword struck my own mother. A Roman cut her across the back, the blade slicing through the bones of her spine. She collapsed as if dead, with others falling on top of her. She was saved only because the Romans did not stop to examine the dead but kept surging through the Temple region, stabbing and slashing at anything that moved.
Though Ima’s wound did not appear fatal, the injury left her unable to use her legs. A physician taught me how to anoint her wound with healing oils, then shook his head and said my mother would never walk again.
The physician also told me the Romans had captured our king, Antigonus, and sent him to Mark Antony, one of the Romans responsible for placing an Idumaean over us. “Apparently,” he said, speaking more to my mother than to me, “this so-called king is afraid to kill our rightful ruler. He will make the Romans do it.”
Ima turned tear-filled eyes on the doctor. “Will the Romans not have mercy? Antigonus is from the family of Judah Maccabaeus.”
“Neither the Romans nor the Idumaean hold any regard for that noble family,” the physician said. “Instead, we have been given a man from people as common as the earth. Herod and his like are men who should be subject to kings, not kings themselves.”
Years later I would learn that Mark Antony had Antigonus beheaded, the first time the Romans had ever executed a captive king in such a fashion. They said Antony hoped such a squalid execution might make the Jews more agreeable toward Herod and less fond of Antigonus.
If that had been Antony’s plan, he did not understand human nature. The news of Antigonus’s murder only deepened the people of Jerusalem’s sympathy for their former king and increased their loathing and suspicion of Herod.
Chapter Seven
Salome
I shall teach these people who and what I am.” Sitting in the great hall of the Hasmonean palace in Jerusalem, Herod straightened and thrust his shoulders back. “I will not give them time to organize opposition. Any and all who have been critical of my government or supportive of the Hasmonean king shall be eliminated at once.”
Joseph and I had just arrived from Samaria. We still had dust on our faces, but when a servant said Herod wanted to see us, we only asked where he could be found.
Pheroras pulled a sheet of parchment from a leather pouch and set it before our king. “I have on good authority composed a list of Jews who have ties to Antigonus or other Hasmonean sympathizers. Most of these are members of the Sanhedrin.”
“That hotbed of hostility?” Herod picked up the list, his eyes narrowing as he studied the names. “I remember him.” He pointed at a name. “When I was summoned before the Sanhedrin to account for my actions in Galilee, this man gave me trouble.” His finger shifted on the parchment. “And this one spoke to me as if I were an imbecile. And that one. Ah, the sons of Baba, Hasmonean supporters, all of them. I remember them well.”
A shadow of alarm crossed my husband’s face. “Would you execute the entire Sanhedrin?”
“Of course not.” Herod pointed to another name. “This Samaias—he supported me even before Rome named me king. And this man, Jonias, told the people not to resist the siege.” A smile quirked my brother’s lips. “He said the armies outside the walls were the instrument by which God was punishing the people for their sinfulness.”
“These are wealthy men.” Pheroras crossed his arms. “And since they are traitors—”
“God has smiled on us,” Herod finished. “Confiscate their property and collect anything of value. After the expense of this siege, my coffers need to be refilled. I have been king in name only for three years and have spent everything to take the throne Rome promised.”
“When do we move?” Pheroras asked.
Herod set his jaw. “Immediately. These people must understand that I am king and I will not tolerate opposition.”
Herod proved every bit as pragmatic as I hoped he would be. Within days of that meeting, forty-five of Antigonus’s surviving supporters had been executed. Few escaped, but although Herod’s men conducted a diligent search throughout the city, no one could find the renowned sons of Baba, a group of men who had been Antigonus’s staunchest supporters.
While my brother took a firm hand with those who had opposed him, he was generous with
his defenders, especially those who had supported him since his days as a commoner. He gave special rewards to the Pharisees Pollion and Samaias because they had glimpsed greatness in him and predicted his rise to power. After confiscating the treasure of the men he had executed, he sent most of it to Mark Antony, calling it “the spoils of war.”
Only a few members of the Hasmonean family remained: Alexandra and her children, Mariamne and Aristobulus, a mere teenager, and Hyrcanus II, a former king and now disfigured old man living in a Jewish community in Babylon. When our father served Hyrcanus, the soft-spoken king had named Herod governor of Galilee, where my brother quickly distinguished himself by capturing and executing Hezekiah, a notorious brigand.
Within weeks after Herod’s installation as king, he received a message from the former ruler that Hyrcanus wished to return to Jerusalem. Herod sent for me, Joseph, and Pheroras. We met him in his bedchamber, and after a quick look around, I relaxed. Neither Mariamne nor her meddlesome mother was present.
“What shall I do about Hyrcanus?” Herod asked, his eyes darting from me to Pheroras. “He will undoubtedly expect favors because he promoted me in my youth.”
“Let him stay in Babylon,” Joseph replied, stroking his beard. “So long as he is away, the people of Jerusalem will think of him as a tired old man. They will not think of him as a king.”
“What do you want to do?” Pheroras held up his hands as if weighing options. “Surely there are advantages to either choice.”
Herod opened his mouth to speak when I interrupted, “You should bring him back.” I gave a firm nod. “The people will think you considerate and kind, and even your wife may appreciate your compassion for her grandfather. But more important, if Hyrcanus is here in Jerusalem, you can keep an eye on him. Give him an apartment near the palace and give him servants from your household—servants who will warn you if he is planning anything traitorous. Be generous with him and keep him close. That is the only way to treat a potential enemy.”
Herod’s eyes rested on me, alight with speculation. “Thank you, sister.” He smiled. “I was thinking the very same thing.”
I returned his smile, comforted to know that even as a woman and a younger sister, I could prove valuable to the king.
Chapter Eight
Zara
I rose with the sun, then stepped outside to let the chickens out of their pen. Their irritated squawking turned to contented clucking as they ran toward the grain I tossed on the ground. Several hens ignored the grain and waddled to the watering trough to ease their thirst after a long night.
Sighing, I leaned against the courtyard wall and studied the narrow street beyond. My mother and I had been living with my aunt Rimonah ever since what Ima called “Herod’s war.” My aunt lost her husband in that bloody siege, so now the three of us worked together to stay alive. My job was to take care of Ima, feed the chickens, and collect the eggs. My aunt milked the goat and made cheese, and on market days she would take eggs, cheese, and freshly plucked chickens to sell. She would return home just before sunset, exhausted but thankful for the few coins in her hand—even when those coins bore the image of an eagle, the hated symbol of Rome.
Jerusalem had become a different place under our new king. People did not speak to strangers as freely as they once had, and men who met on street corners often spoke in low voices. When I asked Aunt Rimonah what they were whispering about, she placed her hand across my mouth and pulled me close. “You must be careful what you say,” she murmured. “People who speak ill of the king usually end up dead.”
“But I did not say anything about the—”
“Shh. Whenever you see men talking together like that, do not draw attention to them. Act as if you hadn’t seen them at all.”
I nodded as a chill gripped my bones. “Would the king kill them?” I whispered.
“I do not know. But someone does, so watch what you say. You would not want to get anyone in trouble, would you?”
I shook my head and backed away.
In those days I was desperate to be a good girl. After Abba died and Ima lost the use of her legs, I wondered if I had done something to displease HaShem. Had I forgotten to keep His name holy? Had I coveted our neighbor’s goat? Had I been jealous of another girl or told a half-truth to keep from getting in trouble?
I couldn’t remember, so I begged HaShem to forgive me and not let me slip again. But despite my frantic promise, Abba did not come home and Ima did not get better. She seemed to grow weaker, in fact, for every day her face seemed a little paler and her breathing a little shallower.
When I looked at Aunt Rimonah, I saw my fears reflected in her eyes. She depended on Ima to take care of me while she worked at the market, and if something happened to Ima . . .
I knew she did not want to think about the possibility. Neither did I.
One bleak day, however, I saw something so unexpected, so dazzlingly beautiful that the world seemed to shift on its axis. I was sitting in the courtyard, using a clay shard to scoop up chicken dung, when I heard the sound of horse hooves. We did not often see those beautiful animals on our narrow street, so I looked up in amazement. The horse coming toward me was large, graceful, and as black as the night sky. I must have sighed in admiration, because my sigh was answered by the sound of masculine laughter.
My cheeks burned as I stared at the rider. A young man sat on the horse, an almost-grown boy of fifteen or sixteen. Dark curly hair blossomed around his head, and brown eyes danced above his white smile. His face was so perfectly formed that for a moment I thought HaShem had sent an angel to answer my prayers.
Then the boy spoke. “Have you never seen a horse before?”
For an instant I did not realize he was speaking to me—why would he? But when I did not respond, he leaned forward in his saddle, lowering himself until his head was only a hand’s breadth above the horse’s thick mane. “Little girl, have you never seen a horse?”
I closed my eyes, then opened them again to make certain I had not been imagining him. I then answered honestly, “I have never seen anything so beautiful as you sitting on that horse.”
The young man laughed again, then pulled a coin from the purse at his belt and tossed it to me. “Thank you,” he said, grinning. “Be well.”
The coin landed in the dust at my feet, but I did not pick it up until after he and his magnificent mount rode away. When he had disappeared, I found the coin, saw an anchor and some sort of writing on it. I rubbed my thumb over the inscription.
Though deception might be wicked, I decided not to show the coin to Ima or my aunt. They would want to spend it, while I wanted to keep the coin forever.
Never had I been given anything so precious by anyone so beautiful.
Chapter Nine
Salome
One afternoon I grew weary of being penned up in the palace. Because the place held too many unpleasant memories for me, I summoned Nada and asked her to call for a litter. “We are going out for fresh air,” I told her, covering my hair with a veil. “I would like to see how the inhabitants of Jerusalem are adjusting to life under a new king.”
Nada crinkled her nose. “Are you certain, my lamb? Some people might not welcome the sight of Herod’s sister in their neighborhoods.”
“I will not go as the king’s sister.” I draped the end of the veil over my face. “I will go as an anonymous woman with her servant. No one will know who I am.”
Nada sighed heavily, but she obeyed. I was strapping on my sandals when she returned and told me a litter waited for us in the courtyard. “If you want to be anonymous”—she eyed the necklace at my throat—“perhaps you should leave the jewelry behind. Few citizens of Jerusalem walk around with such treasures on display.”
I was about to answer with a sharp rejoinder, but then I realized she was right. And what would it matter? I pulled the heavy necklace over my head and tossed it onto the bed. “Let us leave this place.”
We went down to the courtyard. The man who carri
ed the front of the litter asked where I would like to go, and I hesitated for a moment. “To the Temple,” I finally said, knowing that area was always busy. “And you may take the longest route—I am in no hurry.”
He grunted in reply and gripped the carrying handles, as did the servant at the rear. Nada and I climbed in, and I drew the curtain but left a small crack—enough for me to examine any sights that might catch my interest.
Litter bearers usually moved through the streets at a slow jog. This man, however, had apparently taken me at my word, for he walked, albeit with long strides. We left the palace and ventured into the upper city, moving through the center of the narrow streets. A dazzling white blur of sun stood high in the blue sky, yet the air was sweet with the promise of autumn to come. I breathed deeply and sighed. “Isn’t this better than sitting in that old palace?” I nudged Nada’s arm. “Don’t you agree?”
She made a noncommittal sound and folded her hands, clearly unhappy to be out of familiar surroundings.
Voices reached us through the curtain, and I frowned as people grumbled and moved out of our way. They might not have known who occupied the litter, but judging from their resentful tone, they surmised that we were outsiders. Who but an outsider could afford to hire a litter in such desperate times?
I peered through the opening in the curtain and watched life in the streets glide by. Here, a woman with a crying baby on one hip and a stack of cheeses on the other. There, a Pharisee, his hands folded as he bellowed his prayers by the marketplace. Here, a carpenter, his sweat-stained face lined with weariness as he struggled beneath a heavy beam. There, a merchant, offering meager baskets of grain for sale.
Then a robust masculine voice pierced the curtain. “He was a mere slave in the house of Hasmon,” the man said, his voice thundering with the conviction of an ancient prophet, “and he killed all the royal family but for one princess, who preferred suicide rather than to marry him. Does not the Torah say, ‘You may not put a foreigner over you, who is not your brother’? Yet we have an alien over us as king, a commoner and an Idumaean, one whose mother was an Ishmaelite.”