by Angela Hunt
A thought, disloyal but apt, raised its head. What right had my uncle to accuse Cleopatra Thea of political manipulation? He had arranged a dishonorable betrothal in an attempt to gain political favor, yet HaShem had thwarted him.
I looked down and wiped my damp palms on my chiton. For three years I had waited . . . for nothing. By the time Cleopatra Thea received Uncle’s message about my readiness for marriage, she was likely too embroiled in putting down a revolt and murdering her son to do anything about it.
In any case, HaShem had spared me from that bloody palace. Blessed be the name of the Lord.
And yet . . . I had been rejected. Abandoned. And now I was well past the age when girls were promised to bridegrooms. What was I supposed to do with my life if I did not find a husband?
I had trusted Uncle, who kept insisting that he had plans for me. His first plan had not come to fruition, so he would have to come up with another.
And I would have no choice but to trust him.
“I am happy,” I said, looking around the circle, “to wait until you find someone more suitable. But the life of a queen”—I shuddered—“is not a life I would freely choose.”
I smiled so they would not think me upset at this abrupt change in my future, then bit my lip and forbade myself to shed any tears.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kissa
Shelamzion did not need to tell me what had happened at dinner—I had heard everything from the hallway where I eavesdropped with several other slaves. I heard the uncertainty in her voice when she said she would be content to wait until the high priest found another man for her to marry. I heard her uncle reprimand Sipporah, and I had heard love and comfort in Alena’s words to my young mistress.
I helped Shelamzion prepare for bed, removing the pins from her hair and then combing through the wavy strands that had been braided and sewn into the elaborate style noblewomen favored. When her long locks hung freely down her back, I helped her into the linen tunic she wore to bed, then waited until she was snug beneath her blanket.
Ordinarily I would have blown out the lamp and lain down to sleep on my pallet, but not tonight. Instead, I sat on the edge of the bed and regarded my mistress, who had been unusually quiet since returning from dinner.
Now, unwinding in the anticipation of sleep, she regarded me with heavy-lidded eyes. “You know what my uncle told me tonight?”
I pressed my hands together. “Yes, I heard everything.”
“Part of me is glad to know we will not be going to Antioch, while another part—”
“You should not feel hurt,” I hastened to assure her. “From what I have seen and heard, royal families marry for political reasons, not for love. Perhaps this is your God’s way of preserving your life, or perhaps he will bring you a better man—one you might actually favor.”
Shelamzion’s mouth twisted in wry amusement. “All my life I have heard stories about how deeply Jacob loved Rachel even before they married. Yet I was betrothed to a man I don’t think I could ever love—not like that, in any case. How could I love a man who did not love HaShem?”
“You see?” I smiled. “Surely this is for the best.”
“You will not miss living in a king’s palace?”
I laughed. “I will not. Nor will I miss having to weave a crown into your hair every day.”
Her smile faded. “Mother was disappointed by the news. Finally her daughter was about to become a queen, but then . . .” Tears glistened in her eyes as she shrugged the words away.
As I sat there, watching my mistress deal with an undeserved pain, I realized that Shelamzion’s God had shown her great mercy by giving her an aunt and uncle who provided the things she should have received from her parents. She had always hardened her heart against her mother’s indifference, but perhaps it was time she knew the truth.
“Mistress,” I said, choosing my words with great care, “for years I have watched you with your mother. Many times I have heard her say cruel things, but mostly I have suffered with you when she remained silent. So many times she should have complimented you, encouraged you, or congratulated you for earning praise from your tutor and the high priest—”
“You need say no more.” She turned away, rolling onto her side to face the wall.
“I have learned something that might help you understand your mother better . . . and I will tell you if you wish to hear it.”
A Sabbath stillness filled the room, with only the quickened beating of my heart to disturb it. After a seemingly endless interval, my mistress turned from the wall and sat up, her wide eyes meeting mine. “I would know . . . what you know.”
I glanced down at my hands, searching for a way to ease into the conversation. “One day I found your mother in her room—she said she was making a gown for Ketura. Something came over me, and words flew off my tongue. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I wanted to know why she favored your sister and ignored you.”
Shelamzion stared at me, her face a blank mask.
I hesitated, afraid she would tell me to be quiet, but she remained upright, her arms wrapped around her knees, her eyes intent on my face.
“Your mother told me she was working in the field one day,” I went on, “because when they were first married, she and your father were poor, so she had to glean the corners of the fields. A man came from out of nowhere and attacked her. She tried to run, but she could not get away. She screamed, but there was no one to hear.”
I averted my eyes, unable to look directly at my innocent mistress as I told the rest of the story. “Your mother already had one daughter, and a few weeks later she knew she would have another child. Finally, months later, you were born. And every time she looked at you, she was reminded of the man in the field.”
“Why?” Though Shelamzion’s face remained blank, the word came out ragged. “Did I—do I look like him?”
“I do not know the answer to that. But your mother said the greatest tragedy was that your father loved you even more than your sister. He made much of you, parading you around the village on his shoulders, despite . . . despite everything.”
Shelamzion frowned and looked away. “She told him?”
“I asked your mother the same question. She said she did not, for what good would it have done? But every time she looked at you, she remembered that afternoon, and she would never forget.”
Shelamzion nodded, her expression grim. I remained silent, allowing her time to consider the implications of this unfortunate truth.
Finally she turned to me. “She can’t be certain that the other man is my father,” she said, her eyes hardening. “Two sisters can look completely different in any family.”
“They can,” I agreed. “Your mother cannot know for certain whether or not you are the child of the man who attacked her.”
“But she believes I am,” Shelamzion said, her voice breaking. “She will always believe I am.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Shelamzion
What can I say of the years that followed? I became a woman-in-waiting. Every time the gates of the high priest’s compound opened, I looked out the window to see if one of the visitors might be a young man of marriageable age. Several were, but never did my uncle send for me or otherwise make an introduction. As far as I knew, no marriage contracts were presented to him; no one broached the subject of a betrothal or wedding.
I was beginning to wonder if Uncle had forgotten that an unmarried virgin lived beneath his roof.
My mother did not forget, but neither did she hold any hope for me. Within a few months of learning that the Seleucid prince had married someone else, Mother returned to mourning Ketura. Armed with new knowledge about her emotional background, I tried to be sympathetic and understanding, but her devotion to the dead went too far.
Despite the prohibition against graven images, and probably inspired by the statues we had seen in Antioch, Mother commissioned a sculptor to create a statue for the vestibule of our small hou
se. “But, mistress,” the sculptor protested, “how will I know what your daughter looked like?”
Mother gave him a demure smile. “Your task is simple—create the most beautiful face you can imagine, and you will have Ketura.”
Three months later, a life-sized and—I thought—idealized statue of my dead sister greeted visitors to our home. Fortunately, we did not receive many visitors. If anyone was taken aback or offended at the graven image occupying the entry, they said nothing of it. Even my uncle, who paid the sculptor’s bill, did not rebuke or deny my mother.
One afternoon I asked Josu Attis why Uncle had become tolerant of what had once been considered intolerable. “People often soften as they grow older,” he said. “I do not know the high priest well, but it is possible he wants your mother to be content. If the statue comforts her, perhaps it is easier for him to allow it than to endure perpetual mourning.”
“Jacob said he would mourn his son Joseph until he went to the grave,” I said.
Josu smiled. “The Torah has set limits for every stage of grief: three days for weeping, seven for lamentation, and thirty for abstaining from laundered garments and from cutting the hair. The sages say that one should not grieve too much for the dead, and whoever grieves excessively is really grieving for someone else.” He narrowed his eyes. “For whom does your mother really grieve?”
The answer came to me at once. “For herself.”
The year after Cleopatra Thea assumed control of her kingdom, Alena gave birth to Absalom, a chubby and ruddy baby with the thick black hair of his historical namesake. She smiled down at her baby and gently smoothed a cowlick at his hairline. “My sister has just had a child, as well.” She looked up at me. “A little girl. They are calling her Salina Alexandra.”
“Pretty name,” I said. “But I am sure she does not have as much hair as Absalom.”
Alena laughed. “I am sure you are right.”
Three years later she gave birth to a fifth son, whom she named Philo Elias. When I visited the infant for the first time, I thought I had never seen a baby so small or with skin so pale. The boy’s flesh seemed almost translucent, and his cheeks were as white as alabaster.
Elias eventually gained strength and grew into a robust boy. And just as Aristobulus and Antigonus were as close as a tree and its bark, Elias and Absalom became inseparable.
One afternoon another group of riders from Seleucia arrived at the high priest’s house. From my window, Kissa and I recognized the fluttering banners the horsemen carried, except the design had been altered slightly.
At dinner that night, I learned the purpose of the Seleucid delegation. “King Antiochus VIII—Grypus—has sent word of his mother’s death,” Uncle announced.
“Sad,” Mother said. “She seemed such a strong woman. Was she ill?”
Uncle shifted on his couch. “The official cause of death is illness. But I paid one of the messengers twenty pieces of silver for the truth.”
Alena arched a brow. “And that is . . . ?”
His glance shifted to me. “You should be thanking HaShem that you are not married to that pagan. Do you remember how he walked with you in the garden?”
I nodded, my memories of that unpleasant hour still crisp and clear.
“The courtier told me Grypus had begun to plot against his mother. Realizing that her son was conspiring against her, Cleopatra Thea prepared two servings of wine, one containing poison. She invited her son to drink, but he switched the cups. His mother drank the poisoned cup and died within minutes.”
I couldn’t stop a gasp. That clever, powerful woman had fallen victim to her son’s plotting?
Alena pressed her palm to her chest. “I can’t imagine anything more horrible than being betrayed by your own son.”
“Our sons are nothing like that prince.” Uncle reached for her hand. “Grypus has no heart and no pity. A tragic situation, indeed, but still a cause for praise because our Salome Alexandra was not involved.”
He looked at me and lifted his cup. “Let us praise HaShem for keeping you here with us. His ways are marvelous, and today we have learned just how wondrous they are.”
I smiled, lifting my cup as well, though something in my soul shriveled when my mother did not.
In the summer Cleopatra Thea died, I entered my twentieth year . . . and realized I was far too old to be a blushing bride. My mother grew thin with fretting over whether I would ever be allowed to marry, but whenever she put the question to my uncle, he would clear his throat and make excuses, finally resorting to a simple answer: “I am saving her for the perfect man, and I have not yet found him.”
Was I upset by this? Not in the least. My unfulfilled betrothal to Grypus of Seleucid had taught me that contentment in the unmarried state was vastly preferable to marrying someone who might poison me to marry his sister.
I had no reason to complain about my life. Some women might have perished from boredom if they found themselves in my situation, but I had Kissa for company, my teachers for enlightenment, and Jerusalem for my home.
And oh, how I came to love the Holy City! Jerusalem prospered mightily during that time. The difficult days of hunger and war drifted into distant memory, and we dwelt in peace and safety. Most mornings Kissa and I would rise early, cover our heads with a himation, and slip away from the high priest’s palace, venturing into various districts to explore the city. We loved the Valley of the Cheesemakers, where homes leaned against each other as if the newer buildings had forced their elders to jostle up against one another. The pungent odors of ripening cheese made us hold our noses, and we frequently had to refuse generous offers from merchants who, supposing us to be wealthy housewives, begged us to try their wares. We reveled in our anonymity and wandered as carefree as butterflies.
The fabric district had its own unique sights and scents. The colors of richly dyed fabrics—deep blue, ripe red, stunning yellow, and royal purple—never failed to thrill. We would linger at the booths and run our hands over the fabrics, admiring textures and close weaves. “You are so skilled,” I told more than one woman at her loom. “I could never weave something like this.”
My praise was always sincere. I had learned many things in my uncle’s household—how to converse with learned scholars, how to appreciate sumptuous foods, and at least thirty-three ways to drape my himation. Alena had taught me the names of more than fifty different styles in wearing one’s hair, all of them made popular by fashionable Greek ladies. And Josu Attis had taught me to appreciate the thoughts of Plato, Socrates, Euclid, and Juvenal, a young Roman poet. I particularly liked Juvenal for posing the question of who could be trusted with authority and power. “Who will watch the watchers?” he asked.
Who, indeed?
Of all my studies, I loved Torah study best. Most girls were not able to study at their father’s knees, for they were expected to help their mothers keep house. Older boys could sit before the Great Sanhedrin, which, when it was not functioning as a bet din, or house of judgment, was a bet midrash, a house of study. But women could not sit before the Sanhedrin, so my uncle finally kept his promise and hired an esteemed Torah teacher, Simeon ben Shetah, to teach me.
At our first meeting, Simeon ben Shetah surprised me with his appearance. He was far younger than I expected, probably only a few years older than me. He was also attractive, with piercing eyes, but unlike most religious scholars, he had a quick smile and a relaxed demeanor. If he had been disappointed to learn that his pupil would be the high priest’s ward, he disguised his feelings well.
“But why,” he asked when we met, “does a young woman want to study Torah?”
“Because I have no husband to teach me,” I answered, “and no father. So you, Simeon ben Shetah, must be as a brother to me and teach me the Law of the Lord.”
He smiled at that, and may have been quietly relieved to know my interest had nothing to do with a desire to marry a scholar. Indeed, by that time I had little desire to marry at all.
One aft
ernoon Simeon brought me several scrolls—sacred writings from a group of Jews in Alexandria. They had translated the Hebrew Torah into Greek and called it the Septuagint, the Translation of the Seventy. He explained that many Jews in Egypt could not speak Hebrew, as Koine Greek was the language of that city.
“I think you will enjoy reading these Scriptures,” he said, placing one of the scrolls in my hand. “The sacred writings take on a different flavor in Greek.”
I frowned. “Are the words trustworthy?”
“Do you think seventy devout teachers would give us anything less?”
And so I read . . . and discovered he was right. The sacred words did have a different flavor in Greek, but they were still like honey to my soul.
Simeon taught me to do more than read and memorize the Torah. He pointed out patterns and analogies and waited for me to discover others on my own. After he pointed out the similarities between Abram’s and Israel’s sojourns in Egypt—they both went down due to famine, they both witnessed plagues upon the Egyptians, and they both left Egypt with great wealth—he asked me to find others within the first book of the Pentateuch.
Within moments I spotted a pattern in the stories of Noah and Moses. “They were both saved from drowning by an ark,” I said, my excitement growing with every word. “Both arks were impervious to water, and both men saved their families.”
Simeon smiled. “Ma’asei avot, siman l’banim,” he said. “The deeds of the fathers are a sign to the sons.” He chuckled at my obvious enthusiasm for learning. “And they say women are temperamentally light-headed.”
My education continued on other fronts, too. Through my uncle and the emissaries who regularly visited him, I became aware of important events in other parts of the world. I learned that the Romans had built two walls at the outer reaches of their empire—the Antonine Wall in a faraway place called Caledonia, and Hadrian’s Wall, across a section of a distant land called Britannia.
My uncle and I would often discuss these things at dinner while Alena listened, Mother dozed, and the boys fidgeted on their couch. One night I told Uncle that I found the Roman system of government intriguing. In a world of kings and high priests, they were governed by a Senate and two consuls, men who were elected each year.