by Angela Hunt
“Care for her now by giving her a fine burial.” He crossed his arms. “So what can I do to win the hearts of these Jews?”
I closed my eyes, my mind thick with fatigue and guilt. “Has Alexandra written Cleopatra with news of her son’s appointment? The news should pacify the Egyptian woman—and her lover.”
“I do not know. But even if she has, I can’t forget that I have done something I did not want to do . . . the thought discomfits me.”
“You are the king. You can change your mind. Or postpone the boy’s appointment.”
“If I change my mind, Alexandra will inform Egypt. Cleopatra will run to Antony, and Antony will write me again—and this time he may insist that I send Aristobulus to Alexandria. If I do, and if Antony finds the lad agreeable, he may decide to make him king. And all these things would happen while I am here, unable to speak to Antony or do anything to reassure him.”
I leaned forward and grabbed my brother’s wrists. “Stop tormenting yourself,” I muttered through clenched teeth, my grip tight on his arms. “You are the king, not Alexandra.”
His eyes bored into mine, narrowed with rage. He jerked free of my grasp and stood. For an instant I felt raw fear—had I gone too far?—but then he turned and began to pace, his hands locked behind his back. “And—” he drew a ragged breath—“there is the matter of how Alexandra has been working against me for months. She and Cleopatra are more treacherous than Eve, for they conspired without my knowledge. At least Eve went to Adam and spoke plainly to him!”
“Herod, calm yourself. Antony trusts you. Rome trusts you.”
“Rome trusts me, yes, but I do not trust Rome. The Senate can be moved in any direction on any given day, depending upon which silver-tongued orator stands to speak. You have not been there, Salome, you have not seen these men in action. I have, and it is both fearful and marvelous to behold. Rome is filled with skillful, manipulative men, and one man does not hold all the power.”
“Yet Antony holds one third of the power,” I reminded him. “Octavian holds another third, and Lepidus—”
“Octavian and Lepidus do not concern themselves with Judea.” Herod shook his head. “And if Antony believes I cannot hold Judea peacefully, he will appoint another king and we will all be exiled, if not worse.” He stopped pacing and looked me in the eyes. “The stakes are high, sister. If he believes we have not been just in our dealings with the Hasmoneans, Rome could demand our lives. Antony would be pleased to confiscate our property.”
“Then you must do what you can to keep Alexandra from working mischief. And I will help you.”
“Truly?”
“Herod.” I stood and squeezed his hands. “You are my brother, and you know I would die for you. You are also the king, so you have every right to control Alexandra’s actions. Place a man at her door and tell her she is being guarded because you fear for her life. Make arrangements so that any message she sends is first delivered to someone you trust, so you can be aware of her activities. Do not let her leave the palace or receive any guest except for those you have approved. In this way you can minimize her meddling.”
Herod tilted his head. “Alexandra is not a fool. She will know my true reasons.”
“Then invent a credible threat, dear brother. Surely one of your men can find some zealot who is upset because Alexandra allowed her daughter to marry an Idumaean. Have someone report on his raving and furnish her with a reason for submitting to your protection. Then protect her with every resource you have.”
Herod stared at me a moment, and then his wide mouth split into a grin. “I should have known a woman would best advise me about how to defeat another woman.”
“Naturally.” I turned back to my dressing table. “Now let’s talk about what you can do for me.”
“Anything, sister.”
I stared woefully at my tangled hair. “I need a handmaid—someone young, skilled, and quiet. Someone who will stay with me for years, so I do not have to go through this again.”
“Shall I ask Mariamne? She might have a girl who would be capable—”
“No! I will not have one of her castoffs.”
Herod frowned, then nodded. “I will put someone on it right away.”
Chapter Fifteen
Zara
I had just pulled a square of linen from the loom when I heard a man’s voice at the courtyard gate. A shadow of alarm crossed my mother’s face. “Could that be Etan Glaucus? What if he has brought his son? Zara, wash your face and cover your hair. I do not know why he’s come, but we should greet him properly.”
I set the linen aside and went to the pitcher and bowl, where I splashed water on my face and glanced out the window. The old man who stood outside the courtyard did not look like a seller of shoes, for he was dressed in expensive robes.
“Hello!” he called, spotting me. “I have an important message for your mother.”
Aunt Rimonah walked up to stand beside me. “He is well dressed,” she said, her brows lifting as she peered out the window. “And he looks important.”
Ima frowned. “What would an important man have to do with us?”
“I do not know, but I will see.” Aunt Rimonah pulled a scarf over her hair and stepped outside. She nodded at the man, then tilted her head and gave him a questioning look. “Do I know you? Or perhaps you have come to the wrong house.”
The man shook his head. “I have come on the recommendation of your Torah teacher. He remarked on your young daughter’s virtue and steady nature.”
My aunt grimaced. “I am afraid, sir, you are mistaken. I have no daughter. I live with my sister and her daughter, but the girl has been betrothed.”
“I have not come to discuss marriage for the girl, but something else altogether.” He pointed at a bench in the courtyard. “Please, may I enter?”
My aunt blinked, and her mouth fell open. Men did not come to the house to see widows, but at least this stranger had the decency to suggest they sit outside, in full view of the neighbors. Aunt Rimonah hesitated a moment before opening the gate.
The man did not sit but pulled off his hat and gave my aunt a confident smile. “I am here to discuss the little girl, so perhaps we should include her mother in this conversation. I understand she cannot walk.”
“True.” Aunt Rimonah’s voice hardened. “She was injured when the king had his Romans storm the city.”
Behind me, Ima gasped, and for the first time I realized that this visitor—who wore more expensive garments than anyone I had ever met—might be associated with the palace. So why had my aunt spoken so brashly?
The man did not take offense. “If you would bring the mother out, I should speak to her, as well. Please.”
Aunt Rimonah stared at him, and I suspected she would like nothing better than to tell this man to leave. But it seemed she was curious and desperate to know more . . . as was I. “I’ll get her,” she finally said. “Wait here.”
She came into the house, closed the door, and leaned against it. She glanced at me, then looked at Ima, her eyes shining with interest. “Did you hear?”
Ima nodded.
“Shall we listen to what he has to say?”
“About Zara?” Ima’s voice cracked. “What could he possibly have to say about a nine-year-old girl?”
“We will never know unless we hear his proposal.” Rimonah walked toward Ima, her hands twisting. “What say you? We can hear his proposition and respond as we please.”
“What would a rich man want with my child?” Ima’s voice vibrated with dread. “It is the king’s doing. He has brought wealthy Edomites and Ishmaelites into the city, and they are not like us. Besides, we have made an agreement with the shoemaker. Zara is no longer eligible . . . for anything this man might suggest.”
Rimonah pressed her lips together, silently conceding my mother’s point, and then she sighed. “Still, the man has been well mannered thus far, so perhaps his intentions are honorable. Let us at least hear what he has to say.”
Ima e
xhaled slowly, probably realizing she could not argue with her sister. Rimonah moved to Ima’s left side and I to her right, and together we carried her to the bench in the courtyard. The moment we passed through the doorway, I felt the pressure of the stranger’s dark eyes on me. He watched intently, as if weighing my attitude, and I suspected anything I might say or do in this brief encounter would be of great importance to my future.
“Thank you, Zara,” Ima said, lowering herself onto the bench. “You may go back inside.”
I bowed my head out of respect, then hurried back into the house and sat beneath the open window where I could hear every word.
“Where do I begin?” the man said when my mother and aunt had settled to listen. “I am Joseph, uncle to the king and husband to his sister, Salome. My wife has long been attended by a woman who recently died, and she has grieved for days. The king asked me to find her a new handmaid, and when I asked around, many people mentioned that your daughter is exceptionally skilled with styling hair.”
Ima groaned, and in that instant I knew she regretted bragging about my skill. If she’d said nothing, this man would not be standing in our courtyard.
“Zara is very good with her hands—with anything she sets out to do,” Rimonah said, her voice brimming with confidence. “But her future has been decided. She is betrothed to a fine young man.”
“You were wise to plan her future, but why not allow her to embark on a fulfilling life now? Break the betrothal and allow her to live at the palace. She will be in good hands and will be given everything she needs. The girl will live in luxury. My wife is a kind mistress and does not beat her servants. She treated her former handmaid like a mother, and she would treat your child like a daughter.”
A strangled sound issued from my mother’s throat. “Plans . . . have been made. Zara is set to marry a shoemaker once she is of age. The contract has been signed and witnessed.”
“Such contracts are easily set aside. Your daughter will bear no disgrace because she has been offered something far better. Living at the palace, she will walk the same halls as kings and princes. Think of it, woman! We have a Hasmonean queen, so the palace is not foreign soil. And I can assure you—I have known the king since his childhood, and he is not the monster some people have claimed he is.”
“Our people are from the tribe of Levi,” Aunt Rimonah said. “Ours is a fine family.”
“I’m sure it is. I do not know what you’ve heard about the king, but let me assure you he is a righteous man. He observes the Law and the Sabbath, he circumcises the male members of his family, and he fears HaShem. You need not worry about your daughter being tainted by any pagan religion.”
I thought Rimonah would mention the betrothal again, closing the matter, but instead she shifted the conversation to practical matters. “Zara is so young. What would your wife expect her to do?”
Our visitor smiled. “Salome needs a handmaid—someone who can run errands in the palace, who can do her hair and help her choose her clothing. Salome is looking for a young girl who can be taught to drape a himation and arrange hair in the latest Roman styles. And she wants someone who can keep a confidence and work quietly.”
“How long would Zara remain at the palace?”
“For as long as she pleases Salome—probably years. She would be free to marry and have children, of course, if HaShem wills. She could even marry someone from the royal household. She might remain with Salome for the rest of her life. But know this: Zara would be a servant, not a slave. She could leave at any time, if she chose to go . . . or if Salome thought it best to release her.”
A moment of silence followed, and in it I could almost hear the pounding of my mother’s heart.
“Please,” the man finally said. “Think about my offer. I will come again on the morrow, and you may give me your answer then.”
I crouched beneath the window, silent and still, and heard the creak of the courtyard gate. When the crunching of the man’s footsteps had faded away, Aunt Rimonah said, “She could marry into the royal household.”
“Hmm?”
“Pay attention, sister, and think of your daughter! The king’s house is filled with couriers and ambassadors and counselors. Zara could meet all sorts of people, even princes and kings.”
“He was probably thinking she might marry a stableboy.”
“So what? Is that not better than marrying a shoe seller? The future will depend on Zara . . . and HaShem. If she decides to marry a stableboy, fine. But one of the king’s sons might notice her, as well. She could marry a prince.”
“The king’s sons are babies,” Ima scoffed. “But . . . she might marry the queen’s brother. Young Aristobulus lives at the palace.”
My mother’s voice had gone soft and dreamy, and my heart began to beat at twice its usual speed. I did not know much about our new king’s family, but I did know the Hasmoneans. I knew all about Mariamne, the beautiful daughter of Alexandra, who also had a son, seventeen-year-old Aristobulus. I had seen Aristobulus at the Temple, at the market, and riding by this house, and each time his beauty had left me breathless. Both of Alexandra’s children were handsome, yet while Mariamne seemed aloof and distant, Aristobulus had always worn a friendly expression. His manner put everyone at ease, and the women of Jerusalem, even old women who had buried their husbands long ago, giggled like girls when they spoke about him.
If I lived at the palace, I might see Aristobulus every day. Perhaps even his beautiful horse.
“They might become friends,” Ima went on, “and by some miracle he might feel fondness toward Zara. HaShem might give him a true love for her, and he might desire to take her for his wife. The king would surely allow it, because everyone knows Herod is trying to endear himself to the people of Jerusalem by aligning himself with Jewish royalty.”
I bit my lower lip lest an excited squeal slip from my mouth.
“Ask yourself this,” Aunt Rimonah said. “Would Zara be happier as the wife of a shoe seller or the wife of a courier? Or even a prince?”
Ima sighed. “I can barely imagine her as a wife at all. She is still my little girl.”
“She will not be your little girl much longer.” Rimonah lowered her voice, so I moved closer to the window to hear her next words. “You know what the doctor has said. Your injury is not improving, and your days are numbered. I know you want what’s best for Zara, but think, sister—is she better off with me or in the palace?”
A sob broke from my mother but was quickly muffled.
Finally, after a long moment broken only by the sound of sniffling, Ima raised her voice. “Zara?”
I hesitated, knowing a quick reply would reveal my hiding place. After a little time had passed, I stood and looked out the window. “Yes?”
“Would you like to live at the palace?”
What girl would not want to live in a house with princes and beautiful horses? Yet I had no idea how to answer, whether I should appear indifferent or eager, though I had no intention of squandering this unexpected opportunity.
I closed my eyes and considered my answer. Was this what HaShem had planned for me? Had He opened the door to the king’s house? Last year I had no idea what my future would hold; today I could choose between being the bride of a shoe seller or living in a grand palace.
Of course, I could not know if my mother’s dream would come true and I would marry a prince. But if I did not, the palace held other advantages, and being a royal lady’s handmaid could not be so difficult. Slaves did the hard work in any household—the carrying of water, scrubbing of floors, grinding grain, and cooking meals. Ladies’ handmaids performed more genteel tasks—arranging hair, choosing garments, stringing pearls, light sewing. I could weave for the king’s sister and embroider designs on her gowns. I could make myself useful, and if ever I grew tired of the work, or if I did not please her, I could always come back to help Aunt Rimonah . . .
“Surely there are other eligible men at the palace,” Aunt Rimonah said. “Surely no
t all the king’s men are Idumaean; some have to be Jews. One of them might notice our Zara, find her winsome, and want to marry her.”
“Unless she remains at the palace too long,” Ima countered. “If she comes home after twenty years, or thirty, when she is no longer of an age to have children, none of the men from this neighborhood will find her desirable. They would look on her with suspicion and wonder if her time in the Idumaean’s palace has tainted her.”
I lifted my gaze to the ceiling, where HaShem always seemed to hover above the roof tiles. Is this opportunity a gift from you? Or is it a temptation to avoid the future you have planned for me?
Adonai did not answer with a thunderclap, a mighty wind, or an audible voice, but when I opened my eyes, my heart had filled with a fierce and enthusiastic joy.
“Yes, Ima!” I called, leaning out the window. “Yes, I do want to live at the palace!”
Chapter Sixteen
Salome
I was in my bedchamber, fussing at the Egyptian slave who had just burned my ear with the hot calamistrum, when Joseph strode through the doorway wearing a cocky grin.
“Did your horse win,” I quipped, “or did you wager on something else this time?”
Joseph dropped onto my bed and clapped his knees. “I’ve brought you a gift.”
I waved the slave away, not caring that only half my hair had been curled. Better to wear it down than to have my ears burned by the latest instrument of torture from Rome.
“You’ve brought me flowers? Jewelry?”
“Neither. The king charged me with finding you a new handmaid.”
“You?” I lifted a brow. “You know nothing of women’s hair or clothing.”
“I know what Herod wanted. He asked me to bring you a Jewish girl, someone Mariamne would accept. I was reluctant at first, knowing how you feel about our queen, but then I thought you might enjoy ordering around a Jewish girl, since you cannot command the somber old women who look with disapproval on their royal family.”
I took a wincing breath. “Who have you brought me, husband?”