by Angela Hunt
“The Romans have had their problems,” Uncle said. “Men are fallible, and some men are corrupt.”
As are some priests, I wanted to say, but I did not want him to think I was referring to anything he had done. In truth, I never asked about Temple activities because I did not want to meddle in his affairs. Knowing that many priests were strongly opposed to women studying Torah, I was content to study quietly.
I shared what I had learned with Kissa, who would listen as I read or wrote out a lesson for my teacher. Her hands were always about some bit of housework—mending, cleaning, or rolling cotton around twigs—and I was never sure how much of my scholarly babbling she retained. Occasionally she would sigh and ask, “And this is important—why, exactly?”
I would laugh and explain that I found joy in learning. If no one ever asked me about Plato’s three types of men or patterns in the Torah, I did not care. Knowledge itself was a secret treasure made all the more precious because most women did not possess it.
In my twenty-seventh year—the twenty-second year of my uncle’s tenure as high priest—he undertook a military campaign in the north. Since his two eldest sons did everything together, he placed twenty-year-old Aristobulus and seventeen-year-old Antigonus in charge of the siege against Samaria.
Our dinner conversations shifted away from Torah and toward plans for war, and the frequent talk of tactics and siege warfare made me shudder. Were the Samaritans not our relatives? Why were we warring against them?
But the campaign commenced, and the sons of John Hyrcanus led the siege. The Samaritans should have been easily defeated, but they received support from the Seleucid king, Antiochus Cyzicenus, half brother to Grypus and ruler of half the empire. After a year, the Seleucid army withdrew, and the high priest’s army overran Samaria and destroyed the Samaritan temple at Gerizim.
Notably, for the first time in history, the people of a conquered territory were forced to adopt our Jewish customs and worship. Those who would not convert were enslaved.
The situation bothered me a great deal. Was this not what happened to us when Antiochus Epiphanes overran Judea? He profaned our Temple and demanded that we worship Zeus and abandon our Jewish Law. Those who refused were executed.
I began to think I had been spending too much time with Simeon ben Shetah, for the pattern was all too easy to spot.
I did not agree with my uncle’s decision, and yet it was not my place to question him. I could think of only one reason why he felt compelled to attack Samaria in the first place: territory. Judea had been a small nation when Judas Maccabaeus led the revolt. Later, his brother Jonathan conquered lands to the east and west, enlarging our territory from the Great Sea in the east to Perea in the west. After Jonathan died, Simon conquered additional territory, but not nearly as much as his predecessor.
Now my uncle was doing his best to claim additional territory for Israel, and I suspected his motivation was the promise HaShem gave Abraham: “I give this land to your seed, from the river of Egypt to the great river, the Euphrates River.” Adonai had promised that we would possess the lands presently occupied by Philistines, Idumeans, Nabateans, Pereans, Phoenicians, and Itureans. Uncle seemed determined to reclaim every inch of land promised to Israel by HaShem, going back many generations before him.
Of all the things I learned in my time of waiting for marriage, perhaps most important were the stories I learned about my ancestors. Mother would often be overcome with nostalgia for the life we had known in Modein, so Uncle would entertain her by telling stories about “the hammerhead” Judas Maccabaeus; Simon, the wise brother; Eleazar, the son who had been crushed by an elephant; Johanan, the eldest who bred fine horses; and Jonathan, the son who had married Eleazar’s widow. I learned how the Maccabees purified the Temple after the desecration wrought by Antiochus Epiphanes. As Uncle told the story, he mentioned how the Maccabees had refused to wear Greek hats or wrestle naked in the gymnasium like so many others who adored all things Greek.
When I heard this, I looked around in confusion. When he was not wearing his ritual vestments, Uncle dressed in the Greek style, as did everyone I knew. He did not visit the gymnasium or wear a Greek hat, but he embraced other Greek entertainments with enthusiasm, as did his sons. As did Mother, Alena, and I.
“Why do we wear Greek clothing and read Greek writers when Mattathias and his five sons would not?” I asked.
Uncle thought a moment. “In those days,” he finally said, “to love the Greeks meant despising your heritage. Some men even went so far as to attempt undoing their circumcisions. But now it is clear that we can admire certain Greek attributes and still keep the Law. If we can be true to the Law in spirit, then what we wear and do matters little.”
While I understood his reasoning, I knew others would disagree. I had met a group of men who came regularly to visit the high priest. They wore simple white robes, grew long untrimmed beards, and refused to curl their hair in the Greek style. They called themselves Essenes, “the Doers.”
“We are the doers of Torah,” I heard one of them say. “We not only hear it and talk about it, we do it.”
Though I could not help but admire their wholehearted devotion to the Law, my uncle had little patience for the Essenes. “They are too literal,” he said when I mentioned them at dinner one night. “They do not understand that the world has changed, and we must change with it. Judas Maccabaeus said we should not keep the Sabbath if we had to defend ourselves from the enemy, so we made an exception to the Law. If we had not, we would not be alive today.”
“I understand,” I said, “yet I cannot help but admire the Essenes. They are resolute in their devotion to HaShem.”
“As am I,” Uncle said, smiling at me. “As are you. And one day that devotion will be your reward, Shelamzion. You will see.”
One afternoon Mother and I met Alena and Uncle in the courtyard to welcome a delegation from Alexandria. Uncle said the caravan was certain to be flamboyant and colorful, so we sat beneath a pavilion while servants kept the air moving with wide, plumed fans.
Uncle was correct. A line of trumpeters came through the gate first. As soon as they stepped into the courtyard they halted, planted their feet, and released a string of shrill blasts that startled the livestock and delighted us. Though I knew the Alexandrians were as Greek as Aristotle, they wore the pleated linen kilts and striped headdresses of ancient Egypt. Seeing them attired in such a manner reminded me of Joseph, who had risen from the darkness of that pagan kingdom and saved Israel.
My pulse quickened. Could I find a parallel story in the Scriptures?
Uncle stood as a smaller wagon entered, this one filled with little girls who tossed pink-and-white petals in his direction. The sight made me smile and brought a glint of pleasure to my uncle’s eye. I leaned toward him, about to inquire about the girls, and saw his mouth twist, his eyes narrow, and all color leave his face as he clutched at the neckline of his robe. I peered into the courtyard, certain that some assassin had suddenly sprung from the approaching wagon, but all I could see was the group of wide-eyed girls.
“Uncle? What is it?”
Alena was at his side in an instant. “Sipporah—send for the physician!”
Mother hurried away as Alena and I supported the staggering high priest. We would have helped him to a chair, but his legs gave way, causing him to crumple and fall. I sent Kissa for water and a basin, then commanded the slaves to fan my uncle, for large drops of sweat had pearled on his forehead and upper lip. His hands were wet too, as were his arms, and even the skin at his throat.
A moment later, Kissa ran to us with linen and a basin. I dipped the cloth in cool water and applied it to Uncle’s forehead and face. He did not look at me but kept his gaze fixed upward, as if he expected the roof of the pavilion to blow away and HaShem to be waiting on the other side.
Recovering from her shock, Alena ordered several servants to carry Uncle to his bedchamber. Knowing that he was in good hands, I walked out to welcome the d
elegation from Alexandria and told them the high priest would receive them another day.
Then I joined the family upstairs in the hallway. Judah Aristobulus and Antigonus had come to the house and taken over the business of fussing over their father. They ordered servants about and made a great show of shouting at each other, but in the end, all any of us could do was wait.
After the physician conducted a private examination, he stepped into the hallway and announced that John Hyrcanus had suffered pain in his heart and lungs. “He needs rest,” he said, looking at Alena. “He must remain inside, out of the heat, and his strength must not be taxed.”
While Uncle’s sons shouted questions at the physician, I glanced at Mother and wondered what we would do if Uncle died. Would we have to leave our home? Would we go back to Modein?
Mother’s lips went thin as she turned toward Judah Aristobulus, Uncle’s firstborn. If my uncle died, Judah would likely become the high priest and leader of Israel. Antigonus would undoubtedly assist him, for I could not imagine one without the other.
But neither could I imagine Judea without John Hyrcanus.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Kissa
While the high priest’s family fretted over his health, I went down to visit members of the delegation from Alexandria. They had set up tents in the courtyard, and the cook had provided them with food. The little girls were playing games on the paving stones while the adults paced, talked, and searched the sky for omens.
One man recognized me as a member of the priest’s household. “Is there any word?” he asked, lifting his voice above the others’. “Is the man dying or will we be able to see him?”
I shook my head, unwilling and unable to give him an answer. I walked on by and soon spotted a woman alone—probably mother to some of the girls. She was sitting on a blanket, chewing on the ends of her hair and watching the girls play.
I knelt down beside her. “Greetings,” I said in Greek. “I wanted to see if you need anything from the house.”
She blinked in surprise, then smiled. “Kind of you to offer. If you have any soft beds, they would do.”
I blew out a breath. “I’m not sure about beds, but I’ll see if I can find some pallets and pillows. Is everything else as it should be?”
The woman shrugged. “We weren’t supposed to stay overnight, but the gods are going to do what they do, right? If they decide to strike a man down, nothing can be done about it.”
“I suppose not.” Why couldn’t I get to the point? I had left my mistress to come here, and now I didn’t know what to say. “You are from Alexandria, correct?”
The woman blinked again. “Yes.”
“Did you ever live in Memphis?”
“That’s Egyptian territory.”
“I know. I was born there.”
Her painted brows shot up to her hairline. “How did you get here?”
I sighed. “Slave caravan.”
She smiled, displaying a gap where a front tooth should have been. “I’d say you have done all right, ending up in a grand place like this.”
I forced a smile. “I was wondering . . . I know it is unlikely, but do you know anyone from Memphis?”
The woman’s mouth twisted. “Come now, slave. Memphis is a world away from Alexandria.”
I drew a deep, shaking breath and nodded. “I know. Still, I thought perhaps—”
“I might know your lover? Your brother or sister?”
I shook my head. “I thought perhaps HaShem had heard my prayers. But I should have known better.”
She snorted with the choking glee of a woman who seldom laughs. “You thought—ho, that’s rich.”
I stood and gave her a friendly wave. “I’ll ask about the pallets. I’m sure the overseer will be out shortly to offer whatever help he can.”
I walked away, painfully aware that the woman was still laughing at my foolishness.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Shelamzion
Over the next few weeks I did not see much of my uncle. He spent many days either in his bedchamber or his reception hall. When I did spot him, he moved like an old man—hunched forward, head down, his usual broad gait reduced to mincing steps as servants supported him, one on each side.
He slept late every morning, often not accepting visitors until the sun had passed its zenith. The visitors he did see were fellow priests and leaders of the community. He had no time for me, and little for his wife and sons.
I told myself he was not trying to snub me—after all, he had been extremely ill, and the sudden attack had frightened all of us. He was trying to follow his physician’s recommendation and rest as much as he could. When he had time for family, it was only natural he would want to see his wife and his sons before anyone else. Who would expect him to take time for a niece who was not really a niece?
But one afternoon Uncle sent for me. My heart lifted at the news, for surely this meant his health had improved. I wore a new tunic for the occasion and had Kissa arrange my hair in a style I knew he liked. I was eager to discuss the latest commentaries I had read and get his opinion on the authors’ views. Perhaps he would invite me to dine with him and Alena, and we would debate and laugh as we had in former, happier days.
When I stepped into the reception hall, I found that we would not be speaking alone. Alena sat by Uncle’s side, and my mother stood a few steps away. All three of them wore small, tight smiles and focused intently on my face.
“Salome Alexandra,” Uncle began, “have I not said that I would not give you in marriage until I found the perfect man?”
“You have said so many times, Uncle. So many times that I am perfectly content to remain in your household as long as you wish me to stay.”
“I have found the man, and it is time for you to be married.”
I blinked hard and glanced at the women. Mother’s smile looked as tight as a bowstring, while Alena’s had gone soft with pleasure. Uncle was no longer smiling but appeared completely sure of himself.
“I am your servant,” I said, dipping my head in a sign of respect. “May I know who this man is?”
Uncle lifted his chin. “Our own Alexander Jannaeus. I have already written the ketubbah, which specifies the amount you and your mother will receive in the event of divorce or our son’s death. You will be well provided for, Shelamzion. And you will be good for him.”
“Jonathan?” The boy’s pet name rolled across my tongue in a slip of surprise. Uncle’s third son was barely fifteen.
I turned and looked at my mother through narrowed eyes. Had she been so desperate for me to be married that she proposed this idea? I did not want to marry a boy. I had nothing against the lad, but at twenty-nine, how could I respect a man who had barely reached manhood? I could understand why Uncle and Alena might desire such a marriage—we were from the same bloodline and I was unquestionably a virgin, having spent every night of my life under a family member’s chaperonage. I might have been less surprised had Uncle wished me to marry his firstborn.
“What of Judah Aristobulus?” I asked. “He is a mature man and is only seven years my junior.”
“Judah has been betrothed already,” Uncle said. “To Salina Alexandra.”
I clamped my mouth shut, stung by what clearly amounted to a rejection. I knew Salina from family gatherings; she was the great-granddaughter of Maccabees warrior Jonathan and his wife, Ona, and her mother was Alena’s sister. Apparently Uncle thought Salina was more suited than I to being a high priest’s wife. Furthermore, she was younger and more beautiful, not having spent more than twenty years waiting for a husband.
I covered my mouth and turned toward the back wall, unwilling for any of them to see the storm of humiliation and resentment that had to be evident on my face.
“Daughter,” Mother said, a touch of irritation in her voice, “you have lived twenty-nine years unmarried, and the high priest is offering you his son. Take the offer and be happy. Marrying a youth is better than living alone.”
So Antigonus had also been betrothed to a younger cousin. Twice I had been passed over.
And why were Uncle and Alena suddenly so focused on betrothing their sons?
“Salome?”
Slowly I turned to face my uncle.
“After the wedding, I am sending you and Jonathan to live in the Lower Galilee. Only a few Jews live there now, but if you live among the Gentiles, you may lead them to favor our administration and accept our leadership. There, you and Jonathan will enjoy a peaceful life away from the hustle and hurry of Jerusalem.”
“But I love Jerusalem!”
“You will love Galilee as well. It is a beautiful, well-watered region.”
I lowered my gaze, for I did not wish to look at him. Not only was Uncle marrying me to a mere youth, he was sending me away from the city that had molded me into the woman I was. I would be leaving my Torah teacher and my tutor. I would be leaving the life I had come to love.
And where would I go? To Galilee, a recently annexed, raw territory that teemed with Gentiles. An area filled with fishermen and farmers and women who dyed fabrics with plants and fish guts.
I pressed my lips together, feeling my uncle’s will like a fist around my heart, squeezing the joy from it.
But what could I do? I was only a woman, with no power or authority of my own.
My wedding to Alexander Jannaeus was part of a week-long celebration in which three sons of John Hyrcanus, high priest of Israel, took wives, feasted, and stole covetous glances at the seat occupied by their father.