by Angela Hunt
Grinning, Joseph lifted his hands and clapped. The door opened, and one of the guards appeared, his hand wrapped around the upper arm of a slender girl with wide, soft eyes.
“So young!” I stood and walked over to the girl. The top of her head barely came to my shoulder. She was a pretty little thing, though unadorned with cosmetics or jewelry. Her dark hair had been twisted into a single braid that ended at her waist. She wore a chemise of fine linen, and the himation draped over her shoulder had been dyed a lovely blue.
“Hello,” I said, drinking in the unexpected sight. “Did you dress yourself?”
She blinked rapidly, nodded, and pointed shyly at Joseph. “The master took me to a room and said I might choose whatever I liked.”
“You chose well. You are lovely—you look a bit like our new queen.”
A blush darkened the girl’s cheeks. “You are kind to say so.”
“Do you speak Greek?”
“A little.”
“What other skills have you? What are you accustomed to doing?”
She glanced uneasily at the waiting Egyptian slave, then returned her gaze to me. “I weave and sew. I can milk a goat. And I can braid hair in all sorts of ways.”
“That is good, since that is chiefly what I’d like you to do. Did your family have servants?”
“We did . . . until my father died. Since then, Mother and I have done all the work.”
“How did he die?”
“In the siege.”
The siege. Would this girl hold me responsible for her father’s death? Perhaps not, though she might blame Herod and the Romans. But she was here, which meant her mother had considered this opportunity and thought it would be good for her daughter. Yet would she be good for me?
I gave her a noncommittal smile, then looked back to Joseph. “She is so young. Perhaps too young.”
“She is teachable,” he said. “And the deal is struck. Her family nullified a betrothal so she could work for you.”
“Really.” I drew a deep breath. I had been hoping for someone older, someone who could serve as a confidante, but perhaps this girl would do. After all, even a tree stump could listen to my rambling thoughts, while a girl could make sounds of agreement and nod occasionally. For I needed no more than that.
“I think we shall get on very well together.” I turned to the Egyptian slave in the corner. “Escort this girl to Nada’s room. Make sure she has everything she needs.” I then looked at my new handmaid. “Take some time to look around the palace. It will be your new home.”
“And you, slave,” Joseph added, fixing the Egyptian girl with a stern look, “do not fill this child’s ears with gossip or treat her like your equal. You are a slave. She is free.”
I gave the girl a warmer smile, knowing she had to be frightened. “Before you go, tell me, what is your name?”
“Zara.”
“Your age?”
“Nine years.”
“You are young.”
The girl lifted her head. “I am old enough to know how to serve.”
The unexpected display of confidence pleased me. “Good, Zara. I believe we shall get along very well indeed.”
Chapter Seventeen
Zara
The slave who had escorted me to the servants’ building led me upstairs, then left me at the entrance to a small room, plainly but comfortably furnished. I stepped inside and dropped the basket containing my few belongings on a wooden chair, then ran my hand over a dusty table. A bed had been placed against the wall, and a bench held several empty baskets—storage, I supposed, for clothing or any goods I might obtain while living here.
I had brought very little from home. Only two tunics, an extra pair of sandals, four wooden hair needles, and a set of carved hair combs. If Salome wanted me to weave or sew for her, she would have to furnish the materials. But since she was the king’s sister, surely she could get whatever she wanted. Everyone knew the king had amassed great riches by stealing the property of the Jewish families who resisted his authority. Ever since the Romans declared the Idumaean our king, even to speak against Herod meant placing one’s life and family in great danger. Even now, my aunt warned me, the king had spies scattered throughout the city, and those spies were ruthless. Some said the spies had grown wealthy themselves because of their work for the king.
I dropped onto the bed and tested the strength of the ropes beneath the straw mattress, then stood. What was I supposed to do now? An older woman might be content to sit and wait to be called, but I yearned to be active. And I was curious—where did Aristobulus live? And might I get to ride his beautiful horse?
Hadn’t Salome said I should look around and make myself familiar with the palace, in case my mistress asked me to run an errand or fetch something from one of the other rooms?
I smoothed my braid, checked to make certain my tunic was still clean, and slipped out of my room. I yearned to explore everything but could not find the courage to venture out of the servants’ quarters. Perhaps later when I had grown more confident of my mistress and her trust in me.
I quietly descended the stone steps and realized the servants’ building was located next to the kitchen area. Across an alley, servants bustled in a large room that opened to the alley, and women wore knotted cloth around their heads to blot the perspiration streaming from their red faces. Two women prepared chickens at a long table, sending wispy feathers floating through the air as one of them plucked and the other chopped off yellow feet and sectioned featherless bodies.
One of the women jerked her chin toward me. “Looking for something, girl?”
I shook my head. “Just exploring.”
The woman smirked. “Best explore elsewhere or you’ll find yourself set to work.”
Embarrassed, I left the kitchen and returned to the alley. A half-dozen chickens scattered at my approach, and beyond them I saw a building occupied by workers and horses. Three carriages stood near the building, and behind them shirtless men shoveled manure into the back of an open wagon. Nothing much to see there.
That left only the largest building, the palace. Perhaps I could tiptoe through it, moving quickly, staying in the wide public halls. I might see important people, even Aristobulus.
I lifted my skirt and stepped carefully through a series of puddles, not wanting to track mud or chicken dung into the king’s house. I stopped at the end of the alley and looked around. An open courtyard stood in front of me, and the thought of crossing it to enter the king’s house made a cold panic skip down my spine.
I would explore the palace some other day, I decided.
I woke the next morning when a chorus of roosters heralded the rising sun. For a moment I did not remember where I was, until I recognized the small room with its sparse furnishings. Salome. My mistress. Did she need me? How would I know if she wanted me?
Dressing quickly, I went downstairs in search of water. I found a woman filling buckets to water the horses, so I used the well water to splash my face. Then I followed the slaves until I found the privy.
Most of the morning passed with no word from my mistress. I went to her chamber and stood outside the door, but I never heard her voice or sounds of movement. I returned to my room and waited for a slave to summon me, yet no one came.
I grew hungry. Driven by hunger pangs, I walked downstairs to the alley and loitered near the kitchen doorway until one of the workers took pity on me and pressed bread and cheese into my hand. “Don’t expect your mistress to feed you,” she said, her eyes smiling above her flushed cheeks. “Whatever you need, you’ll have to seek for yourself.”
When at last a slave came to my room and said my mistress wanted me, I hurried to Salome’s chamber, determined to perform my work—whatever it was—in a way that pleased her. I found Salome at her dressing table, which was covered with an assortment of cosmetics and jewelry.
“Good morning, Zara.” She gave me a quick smile. “Did you sleep well?”
I nodded.
&n
bsp; “Good. Every morning about this time I want you to bring me grapes, wine, and cheese. You can get them from the kitchens, and you may enter after knocking. Even if I do not answer, enter anyway and leave the food on this table.”
I took a step toward the door.
“Not now! This morning I want you to watch so you can learn how I like to do things. Now.” She gestured to the items on the table. “Do you know how to apply cosmetics?”
I shook my head. Neither Ima nor Aunt Rimonah had painted their faces.
Salome sighed. “Watch carefully as this slave applies my cosmetics. Tomorrow I will expect you to do it.”
I nodded and moved closer, not wanting to miss anything.
The slave picked up a jar of what appeared to be crushed green stone mixed with oil. Flecks of gold shone in the mixture, and after the slave applied a thin layer to Salome’s eyelids, my mistress’s eyes shone like sunlight on moving waters.
“You must smooth it carefully,” Salome said. “You do not want lumps, which might fall into my eyes.”
“No lumps,” I echoed.
I watched as the slave applied black kohl to Salome’s eyelashes, olive oil to her unruly eyebrows, and a white powder to her face. When she had finished, she combed Salome’s thick hair, then applied fragrant oil to her hands and worked it into the length.
“Now.” Salome flicked the back of her hand toward the slave, who bowed and left the room. “You said you know how to do hair.”
I nodded.
“Good. Let me see what you can do with this mess on my head.”
I took a few deep breaths and stepped forward, my heart pounding against my ribs. What if my fingers forgot what to do? Salome’s hair was thicker and curlier than Aunt Rimonah’s or my mother’s, so what if my favorite styles would not work on my mistress?
But as soon as I thrust my fingers into her silky hair, my fears vanished. My hands always felt at home in hair, and I realized that braiding Salome’s might be easier than doing my aunt’s or my mother’s. My mistress’s hair seemed easier to grip and less slippery.
“Look at this.” Salome handed me a coin with a woman’s profile engraved on it.
I blinked at the coin, having never seen one like it. We had coins in Judea, but none of them had images of people on them.
“That is a Roman coin,” Salome said, smiling at the woman pictured there. “I want you to do my hair like hers.”
“Who is she?” I bit my tongue, knowing I had spoken too freely. I did not look up, afraid I would meet a stern glance, but Salome did not seem to mind.
“According to Herod, she is a valiant Roman woman called Fulvia, and she was once married to Mark Antony. She may be dead now, but no matter. I would have you do my hair like hers.”
I studied the coin more closely. The woman’s hair had been made high over her forehead, and a braid ran from the highest point of her head to the center of the back where the length had been coiled into a bun. “I can do this,” I said, returning the coin to my mistress. “But I will need time.”
“Time I have.” Salome leaned back in her chair and propped her feet on a low stool. “I am in no hurry.”
While Salome hummed and studied her nails, I ran a comb through her hair and divided it into two sections, front and back. From the back section I made three braids, then pulled them together and curled them into a bun. A large wooden needle held it in place while I threaded another needle with wool the same color as Salome’s auburn hair. I then sewed the bun and anchored it to the center of her head.
The front section would be trickier. I held the strands in one hand and ran my comb toward the scalp with the other, creating an airy mass atop her forehead. I pulled the ends together, divided them into three parts, and created a loose braid. I sewed this braid to the flat section of hair on her head and then tacked the end of the braid to the bun just above her neck.
I did not realize how tense I had been until I stepped back and felt my shoulders sag in relief. Whether or not she liked it, I had done my best. “All finished, mistress.”
Salome, who could not have been as nonchalant as she seemed, sat up and beheld her reflection in the looking brass on the table. She turned her head left and right, running her fingers over the back of her head, testing the bun’s solidity. “Very good,” she murmured. “Very good indeed.”
She turned to look at me, her brows rising in a delicate arch. “Today I would like you to go through the house and learn all you can about how it operates,” she said, her voice smooth. “My brother plans to build his new palace soon. This house simply cannot hold all of us, so the new palace will be larger, grander, and far more suited to his station. While it is being built, Herod will rely on me for ideas and instruction. I, in turn, will rely on you. You must be my eyes and ears among the servants. So interview them, speak to the slaves, find out what they do and how they would change things to make the house run more efficiently. I suggest you begin with the older servants; they have been around the longest and know what works best.”
I blinked at the enormity of my assigned task, then nodded. “I will do my best, mistress.”
“I know this is a big job for one so young,” Salome added, “but your youth may work in our favor, because your presence should intimidate no one. Remember, Herod’s palace must be as grand as those in Rome. Your master—my brother—will not settle for second best, because the Romans will judge his ability by what he produces. Herod’s palace should be amazing.”
“I will do what I can to please you.”
She eyed me a moment, looking from the top of my head to my sandaled feet. “You are a pretty girl, but you must improve your appearance if you are to represent me. Report to the women who sew in the work house and have them make you new tunics—at least one for every day of the week. I have some jewelry I will give you, as well. Nothing expensive, but far better than your being unadorned.”
“Thank . . . thank you, mistress.”
She dipped her chin in a curt nod. “I have given you enough to do today. Away with you now. You may begin your interviews. Remember what is good and make note of what is inadequate. Every day we will discuss these things while you do my hair.”
I bent my knee in what I hoped was a respectful display of submission, then slipped out of the room.
Chapter Eighteen
Zara
For the next several months I worked hard to understand my place in the king’s household. I spent a great deal of time in Salome’s chamber, of course, learning her tastes and quirks. I learned she liked sweets, red wine, and men who made her laugh. She did not like haughty women, giggly girls of any rank, and she most especially did not like her sister-in-law, the queen.
When I was not talking to other servants or helping Salome, I worked hard to hone my ability to arrange hair. I practiced braiding threads, strands of wool, and straw, and soon I was able to create braids without thinking. I studied Roman coins whenever Salome could procure them, especially those with images of women. Salome liked whatever the Romans liked and insisted her hair reflect their latest styles.
“We never know when Herod will be asked to visit Rome,” she said. “So we must be able to travel with him, and I will not travel to Rome looking like a Judean peasant.”
I also learned my way around the palace—which apartments housed the king, his wife and her entourage, including her mother and brother, which housed the king’s brother and uncle, and which belonged to Salome. I learned which servants were responsible for which members of the king’s family, which cared for the queen’s three children—a number that seemed destined to increase every year—and which cared for the king’s dogs and horses. I became friends with the girls who managed the flocks outside the palace kitchen, as well as the chicken girl and the shepherdess who kept the sheep and goats.
I felt more at home with the servants and slaves than I did the royal family, though I longed for the day when I would see Aristobulus and his horse again. Surely HaShem would arrange
things so that my mother’s dreams could come true. She was a good woman and deserved to have her prayers answered.
But I did not have much time for such dreams or prayers, because when I was not doing something for Salome, others in the palace were all too willing to find chores for me. I might have been able to refuse them—after all, I was not their servant—but when someone needed my help, I could not refuse to aid them, small though my effort might be.
As for my mistress, I cannot say I disliked her. Many of my servant friends ridiculed their mistresses when we talked together, but I did not want to mock Salome. She was kind to me, gently correcting me when necessary, and quick to praise when I learned from my mistakes. She understood my youth and inexperience, so she did not command me the way other members of the royal family ordered their servants about. Whenever Mariamne or Alexandra barked orders or openly insulted their servants and slaves, Salome would often look at me, her head shaking almost imperceptibly as her eyes narrowed in disapproval.
As I interviewed other palace servants, I met Mava, a young woman who served as handmaid to the queen. Mava was a freeborn servant, and from her bearing I could tell she had come from an influential Jewish family. Her nails were manicured, her hair beautifully braided, her clothing finer than what the sewing ladies made for servants. She had been chosen as Mariamne’s handmaid when the queen was first betrothed to Herod, so Mava had been part of the queen’s retinue for over six years.
But she was not so highborn she would not speak to a simple Jewish girl, so I found her a valuable friend and a reliable source of information. Whenever I needed to know something about how things should be done, all I had to do was ask Mava.
One afternoon, while Mava and I relaxed in the courtyard, I mentioned that Salome seemed more like an ordinary person than a royal.
Mava’s eyes widened. “You do not know?” she laughed.
“Know what?”
She leaned against me and sighed. “Sometimes I forget how young you are. Salome and Herod are ordinary people, or at least they were until a few years ago. Their father, Antipater, was a servant in King Hyrcanus’s household.”