Jerusalem's Queen--A Novel of Salome Alexandra

by Angela Hunt

  Our old house had been firmly situated in a neighborhood, with a family to the right and Avigail to the left, a courtyard in front and a garden in back. The single room held a mattress for Mother and Father and, in the corner, sleeping mats for Ketura and me. A large table stood under the east window, a surface where Mother worked to prepare meals, grind grain, and stitch the garments we wore. Opposite the table, embers from a small fire glowed in a depression in the earthen floor. Mother cooked on this fire during the day, and at night Father had used light from the glowing embers to read the Torah to me.

  The high priest’s house in Jerusalem, however, appeared to be many houses, not just one. It stood by itself in the Upper City, away from the small houses of regular people. A tall stone wall surrounded the place, with wide iron gates that opened to let visitors enter. Beyond the gate was a wide courtyard paved with flat stones, and several buildings stood at the edges of the courtyard—one was clearly a stable, another a place for guards. A small brick building with a smoking chimney appeared to be the kitchen, which stood some distance away from the other structures.

  Straight ahead of us I counted at least three buildings, or perhaps they were all palaces. The doorway of the center building yawned directly before us. So after climbing out of the wagon, Mother and I approached it with caution. The elaborately carved doors stood open, and when we hesitated to enter, one of the men who had brought us from Modein nodded and urged us forward.

  My heart thumped against my rib cage as we ventured into the house. My eyes drank in the spectacle of the amazing floor—so many colors and patterns! Some artisan had taken great pains to create a picture with shiny tiles. The peacock spreading his plumage beneath my feet was so realistic he seemed to wink at me.

  “Oh,” Mother whispered, and I looked up, having never heard such awe in her voice. The high priest might have been a kinsman, but no one on her side of the family had ever lived in a place like this.

  Overwhelmed, we stood in that glorious vestibule until a servant in a plain linen tunic approached and bent slightly at the waist. She asked Mother her name and smiled at the reply.

  “Sipporah? Let me fetch the mistress. She is expecting you.”

  The servant hurried away while I continued to marvel at the extravagance around us. Mother locked her hands behind her back as she surveyed the room, obviously struggling to appear as if she visited palaces every day.

  We waited for what felt a long time, and then I heard the soft rustle of fabric. A beautiful young woman appeared on the stone staircase, trailed by a girl about Ketura’s age. Was this another servant?

  Definitely not, I decided, as the young woman drew closer. She wore jewelry, which few people wore in Modein, and her skin was as pale as parchment, so she did not work outdoors. And she was young—younger than my mother, and far younger than John Hyrcanus.

  “Cousins,” the woman said, coming toward us with her graceful arms extended. “I am so happy to meet you. I am Kefira Alena, but most people simply call me Alena.” She smiled and squeezed Mother’s hands, then released her and transferred her attention to me. “My husband was right—your daughter is a charming little girl. What do you call her?”

  “Salome Alexandra,” Mother said, lifting her chin. “Her father called her Shelamzion.”

  “The peace of Zion.” A dimple appeared in the woman’s cheek as she looked back at Mother. “I like the name. I know the fashion is to give our children Hebrew and Greek names, but since no one uses both names in ordinary conversation, I fail to see the sense in it.”

  Mother looked away as a blush stained her cheek. She was not accustomed to such rapid conversations, such beautiful women, or such luxurious surroundings. For a moment I felt her embarrassment—even as a child I could sense why she did not feel at ease in this place.

  “Listen to me, prattling on without a thought for your comfort.” Alena turned toward the grand doors, and for a moment I thought she would tell us to go back to Modein. She smiled instead. “Come, I will show you the house we have prepared for you. My husband is determined that you shall live here with us, and your little girl will lack for nothing.”

  She led the way out of the building, and as we crossed the dusty courtyard I looked up at my mother. She had furrowed her brow and compressed her lips, a sure sign of irritation. But the high priest’s wife had been more than kind to us, so what had aggravated my mother?

  In the corner of the courtyard, not far from the gate, stood a small stone house with a porch, tall Greek columns, and a carved door similar to that at the massive entrance of the palace. Mother’s irritation vanished when Alena led us over the porch and opened the door. “Welcome to your new home.”

  The high priest’s palace had awed me, but this smaller house—and the knowledge that Mother and I were going to live there—stole my breath away. Polished tile covered the first floor, the walls were plaster, not mud, and the painted ceiling rose high above our heads. Elegant columns supported a balcony overlooking an open area, and a graceful stone staircase stood against the wall.

  Alena brought her hands together. “I do hope this place will be comfortable for you. We want you to be happy here in Jerusalem.”

  I was ready to throw my arms around the woman in sheer gratitude, but Mother was not quite so eager. “Why?” she asked, abruptly turning to face our hostess. “Why would you do this for us? And why does your husband care so much about Shelamzion? She is no prize.”

  Alena’s mouth opened, and her lovely face went the color of a rose. “My—my husband asked me to make these arrangements,” she stammered. “We are more than willing to help you now that . . . now that you are alone with a child to raise.”

  “But you are doing so much. You could have simply sent food or arranged to send a few talents—”

  “You are family.”

  Mother’s tense mouth relaxed into a wry smile. “Your husband’s father was my grandfather’s brother. So we are not the closest of kin.”

  “All the more reason why we should remain involved with each other.” Alena stepped forward and slipped her arm around Mother’s waist. “Families should not allow themselves to be torn apart. HaShem has blessed the Hasmonean family, and my husband wants to be sure we use His gifts wisely.”

  Mother narrowed her eyes. “I still don’t understand why—”

  “Look—here comes someone I want you to meet.”

  Alena stepped back as a woman and a girl approached. I focused immediately on the girl, who looked older than me, and darker. She and the woman wore simple tunics, and the woman led the girl by the hand. They crossed the front porch and stopped at the threshold, then bowed before Alena.

  “As the master commanded,” the servant said, “I have brought you the slave called Kissa.”

  “Thank you, Gaia. Both of you may rise.” When they did, Alena bent toward the child and lifted the girl’s chin with two fingers. “Kissa, do you understand what a handmaid does?”

  Kissa nodded.

  “You may speak, child.”

  “Yes, mistress. A handmaid obeys her mistress at all times.” The girl spoke common Greek, though she had darker skin than any Greek I had ever seen—but not many Greeks came to Modein.

  “Do you understand what must happen if a handmaid does not obey her mistress?” Alena tilted her head and adopted a sorrowful expression. “I would hate to see you get a beating. Please assure me that you will not disobey.”

  “Never, mistress.” The girl’s round eyes gleamed with sincerity, and I believed her with all my heart.

  Alena stepped aside, leaving a clear space between me and the girl. “Kissa, meet your new mistress. This is Salome Alexandra, and it is your master’s wish that you serve her for as long as she desires your service.”

  The girl’s eyes widened, and I am sure mine did, too.

  Beside me, Mother gasped. “You are giving Shelamzion a slave?”

  “A handmaid.” Alena spoke like a woman who presented slaves to children every da
y. “You will be grateful, believe me. These two will keep each other company, and Kissa will be a good companion for your daughter. She speaks fluent Aramaic, adequate Greek, and a smattering of Hebrew.”

  Mother’s frown deepened. “I still don’t understand—”

  “Do not question good fortune.” Alena smiled and extended her hand toward the stone staircase. “Go choose your bedchamber. I will assign a slave to help you make this your home. If you would like furnishings brought from your former village, tell one of the servants in the courtyard, and he will fetch them for you. If you need anything else, let me know. We want you and Shelamzion to be happy here.”

  I barely heard her words. My mind was still reeling from the realization that I had been given a girl—an interesting girl, and one who was not likely to monopolize my mother’s attention as Ketura had.

  The girl before me was tall and thin, with dark hair, slanting brows, and black eyes. Her skin was the color of burnished metal, and her face as smooth as a marble statue. Her gaze rested on me, alight with curiosity, and I looked at her with outright awe. She was alien, older, and different—and she belonged to me.

  I tried out her name on my tongue. “Kissa.”

  She dipped her head in a bow. “Yes, mistress?”

  “I only wanted to say your name.”

  For a moment we stood and examined each other, then she smiled. In that instant I felt an unspoken agreement pass between us. She would be my servant, and I would be her mistress, but we would also be friends. Until life forced us apart.

  My polite smile split into a grin. I looked around, anxious to leave the women and explore the house with my handmaid.

  Finally, Alena took her leave. Mother closed the door, then leaned against it and swiped a tear from her eye. “If only Ketura were here,” she said, speaking to the air as she looked at the balcony and the ornate pillars. “This is the life my little beauty should have enjoyed.”

  Leaving Mother to her memories, I grabbed Kissa’s hand, and we ran to the staircase, leaping up the steps and racing toward new possibilities.

  Chapter Five

  Kissa

  I wasn’t sure what to make of the girl who grabbed my hand and took me up those stairs, but I knew one thing: she was glad to have someone with her. Though I did not know what sort of child she was—she could have been glad to have someone to tie to a post and torture with biting ants—her smile was wide and friendly and her nature seemed pleasant.

  On the other hand, I had met people who seemed harmless at first, but then time and circumstance revealed darkness in them, a love of distress and pain . . . so long as this was experienced by others.

  After we raced up the stairs, the girl peeked through the balcony posts and watched her mother wander aimlessly around the lower floor. Then the woman left the house, probably hoping to find someone who could explain how things worked in the high priest’s palace. I thought it odd that the woman did not say anything to her daughter before leaving, yet the girl did not seem to notice the oversight.

  When the mother had gone, the girl dropped to the floor, crossed her legs, and looked up at me. “Aren’t you going to sit?”

  I dropped faster than a dead donkey. If I obeyed this girl, if I did what I was supposed to do, maybe the gods would smile on me and send me home.

  “You are Kissa,” she said, studying me.

  I nodded. “And who are you?”

  “Shelamzion. That’s what Father called me, and he loved me best.”

  I took pains to maintain a blank expression, reminding myself to remember those words. “Does your mother have a name?”

  “Ima.” The Hebrew word for mother.

  “What do other people call her?”

  The light of understanding filled the girl’s eyes. “Sipporah.”

  I nodded again, then tilted my head. “May I ask you something else?”

  She nodded.

  “You promise you will not become angry?”

  She laughed. “I promise.”

  I decided to trust the child. Since becoming a slave, I had learned not to speak unless spoken to, and then not to say anything about myself. But from household rumors I had heard that my new mistress was a village child, so she might not know about proper behavior for slaves.

  “I was wondering,” I dared to ask, “how old are you?”

  Shelamzion held up her right hand and touched each of her fingers, then added her left thumb. “Six years. My sister was nine, then she died.”

  Bound by my habit of silence, I did not reply at first. But if I were going to be on good terms with this girl, common sense told me to befriend her. Children could be cruel and petulant, especially spoiled children. Though this one did not seem spoiled, she was young, and might come to despise me . . .

  Unless I taught her to trust me. And to do that, I would have to talk to her. As one girl talked to another.

  I forced a smile. “I did not know you had a sister.”

  “I don’t, not anymore. She died with Father.”

  “That is sad. What happened?”

  As the girl lifted her wide gaze to the ceiling, I saw the sheen of tears in her eyes. “They went riding. People say the horse saw something like a snake, and Father and Ketura fell off the horse and died. They were brought home, the women washed them, and we put them in the cave. We gave away most of our things, and now we are here.”

  I pressed my lips together and sighed. “I am sorry about your father and sister.”

  “So is Mother. She loved Ketura more than anything. She said my sister would marry a powerful man and make us great. But now Ketura is with Father, and we are with John Hyrcanus.” The girl’s lower lip quivered. “I miss Father. I miss studying with him.”

  I smiled, grateful for the insight into my young mistress. “I will study with you,” I told her. “Every night, if you like. But you will have to teach me, because I know very little.”

  My new mistress leaned toward me. “How old are you?”

  “I have lived eleven years,” I said. “I think.”

  She smiled. “I hope we will be friends.”

  Despite the warning voice in my head, my heart warmed at her expression. While I could use a friend in this place, I could not forget the great gulf that existed between slaves and masters. The sort of friendship she had in mind would be impossible, but perhaps we could define our relationship ourselves . . . for as long as we were paired with each other.

  Shelamzion rose to her knees and caught my hand. “Can you help me learn my way around? I know this is supposed to be our house, but it is so big! What if we get lost?”

  “In truth, I have never been inside this house. I have been helping in the kitchens.”

  Shelamzion giggled. “Then we will get lost together. Can we go outside?”

  “If you wish.” I stood and lifted a warning finger. “We must not get in the way. The master does not like slaves who make things difficult for other slaves to do their work.”

  “We will be careful,” Shelamzion promised, taking my hand. She laced her fingers through mine and pulled me toward the stairs. “I want to see everything.”

  “I don’t know everything,” I protested, trying not to lose my balance as I followed.

  “Then take me to the places you do know,” she said, her small sandals slapping against the stone steps. “And we will learn together.”

  As my young mistress and I explored the stables, the cookhouse, the henhouse, and the garden, I wondered if the gods had finally smiled on me. Thus far I had found no comfort or friendship in the high priest’s house, but finally, unexpectedly, I had been granted an easy job and a friendly mistress. This girl might learn to keep me in my proper place, but until that time my life would be far easier and I would sleep in peace and safety, not worrying about being scalded by hot soup, trespassing on another slave’s territory, or being stepped on by a horse.

  And if I did my job well, who knew what might happen? My parents’ gods might finally hea
r their prayers and send me home.

  When my little mistress became tired of exploring, I suggested that we sit in the shade of a terebinth tree. She agreed and eagerly followed as I led her to a spot where we could rest unmolested. I sat on one of the bulging tree roots, facing the house, while Shelamzion sat and turned toward me.

  “Thank you,” she said, her eyes crinkling as she grew serious. “Now you must tell me about yourself.”

  I blinked. “What do you want to know?”

  “Where were you born? Who is your father? What happened to your mother? Did your uncle send you here? Did your father die? Was he a farmer? Did he raise horses?”

  I took a deep breath, stunned by the avalanche of questions. “I was born in Egypt.”

  “Is that near Jerusalem?”

  “It is far away. A journey of many days.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “I walked. With other people.” I closed my eyes, resisting the memory of that torturous ordeal. Several months before, a slave dealer had put shackles around my wrists and dragged me and a dozen other slaves to Judea. I walked over hot sand in papyrus sandals so thin my feet blistered, and my wrists still bore scars from the cruel iron bracelets. But that was not the worst of it—the most horrible aspect of the journey had occurred each night, and memories of those hours still haunted my dreams.

  But I would not speak of those things to this innocent child. No one—not even a slave—should experience those horrors. If I were to see that slave trader at this house, I would find a knife and plunge it into his heart.

  Shelamzion regarded me with a serious look—a look I had never seen on the face of another child. “You seem sad. Do you miss your parents?”

  I nodded.