by Angela Hunt
At dawn of the first day, Judah Aristobulus and Antigonus set out with their friends to fetch their betrothed virgins. In marked contrast, Alexander Jannaeus donned his best tunic and walked across the courtyard, knocked on my door, and bade me come out to be married.
I looked down at him—the youth barely came up to my shoulder—and sighed. “If it is truly your will, I will marry you.”
I was certain it was no more his will than mine, but both of us were bound to obey the high priest.
I glanced at Mother and Kissa, who stood together with their hands clasped in an overflow of earnest hope for my happiness. While Mother looked content, Kissa’s mouth had taken on an unpleasant twist.
I left the house and followed my betrothed husband. Mother and Kissa trailed after us, then joined the small crowd waiting for the other brides and grooms.
When the other two couples finally arrived, Uncle stood and blessed our unions, praying that we brides would be as fruitful as Rachel and Leah. To the grooms he said, “Remember that the Lord God said, ‘It is not good for man to be alone.’ So a man should love his wife as himself and honor her more than himself.”
Then he gave his sons a sly smile, for we all knew what would happen next. Tradition dictated that we go to a bridal chamber to consummate the marriage, then we would return to the courtyard for the marriage feast.
My cheeks burned when Alexander Jannaeus took my hand. I should have been overjoyed to finally have a husband, but instead I felt like a mother to an inappropriate and awkward boy. Hadn’t I held this youth as a baby? Hadn’t I watched over him when Alena was busy? Hadn’t I scolded him for disturbing the chickens, chasing the servants, and throwing stones at his older brothers?
I closed my eyes and breathed the only prayer I could sincerely offer: HaShem, only you can help me see this youth as a husband. Help me behave like the overjoyed bride I have always hoped to be.
My youthful husband led me into the bridal chamber, where he fumbled with his tunic and gestured for me to lie on the bed. I sat on the edge, placed my hand on his chest, and looked directly into his eyes. “Wait.” I kept my voice low, for anyone could be listening at the door. “I will no longer call you Jonathan, because that was the name of the boy. From this day until my last I shall call you Jannaeus, the name of my husband.”
A line crept between his brows, then he smiled. “I will no longer call you Shelamzion, but Salome, my wife.”
I nodded. “That is fitting.”
My husband performed a hurried act that brought me more pain than pleasure. When he had finished, he helped me up and led me to the wedding feast, where the men drank and congratulated each other while we brides ate quietly and wondered what our futures would hold.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Shelamzion
Compared to the pace of life in Jerusalem, our life in Galilee was simple . . . and I cannot say I despised it. I had no tutor there, and scrolls were nearly impossible to procure, but life was uncomplicated and we ate well.
We had departed for Galilee after the conclusion of the wedding feast. Mother and Alena stood in the courtyard and waved farewell as our wagon pulled away. From the back of the wagon, Kissa reached up and squeezed my arm in silent compassion. Guarded by a small group of mercenary soldiers, we traveled north through Samaria for several days, always watchful lest some Samaritan decide to vent his ill will toward John Hyrcanus on us. When we finally arrived in Sepphoris, a small town in the Galilee region, I was relieved to climb out of the wagon.
Uncle had arranged for us to have a small house near the center of the town. I liked the place immediately and knew that Kissa and Notus, Jannaeus’s manservant, would have no trouble meeting our needs. Stately steps led visitors to a wide piazza that ran along the front of the structure. Inside the front doors, a tiled vestibule opened to a rectangular atrium that provided fresh air and sunshine. The open space was well suited for dining and entertaining guests.
While I had little demands on my time in Sepphoris, Jannaeus represented his father, so he frequently received local officials and merchants who wished to pay their respects and curry favor. Most of the time my husband murmured pleasantries while these guests welcomed him, complimented his father, and told him how grateful they were to know he had come to the area. The job was not at all demanding, and Jannaeus was clever enough to know that if he managed this position well, his father might offer more responsibility in the years ahead.
With the people learning we were newlyweds, they brought appropriate gifts: a bed carved of cedar, fragrant oils, bath salts, and fine robes. The visiting dignitaries’ wives gave me fruit and nuts rumored to be aphrodisiacs and vials of oil designed to aid fertility. Many of them claimed to be Jewish, but from their offerings I could tell they had been only recently converted from paganism. “If you eat this and dance in a cedar grove beneath a full moon,” one woman confided, pressing a gnarled root into my palm, “you will have nothing but fine, strong sons.”
I found it easy to forgive the people their lack of knowledge. I gently attempted to correct this sort of ignorance when I could, but the women’s superstitions were deeply rooted and I had not yet proven myself worthy of their trust. Few people had access to copies of the Torah, and even fewer people could read. If they were literate, most Galileans spoke Aramaic, not Hebrew, so even if they procured a Torah scroll, they wouldn’t be able to read it.
As for my husband, his ignorance of the Law appalled me. As the third-born son of Judea’s high priest, he had enjoyed access to all sorts of sacred writings, but the teachings of the Sanhedrin had apparently gone no deeper than his ears. “While the high priest drank deeply at the fountain of knowledge,” I told Kissa one day, “Alexander Jannaeus only gargled.”
But he was not a complete fool. When the people asked him to render judgment and adjudicate their conflicts, more than once he glanced at me for advice. What could I do but help the lad? I would offer advice in the guise of womanly helpfulness: “Husband, surely you will want to do what Moses did in a similar situation . . .”
After the second or third such occasion, I began to understand why my uncle had made me such a baffling match. He had betrothed me to Jannaeus because he knew the lad lacked wisdom and scholarship, qualities I had always sought. And the high priest sent us to Galilee because he knew that in this secluded, recently acquired territory, Jannaeus would be able to make mistakes without spoiling his future prospects. He had also married me to this fifteen-year-old because the youth was one of his beloved sons.
I cannot say I loved the young man I married . . . not even when I realized I was carrying his child. But as Kissa placed the squalling infant in my arms, I knew I had finally found someone I could love utterly and completely. This small human, a flesh-and-blood miracle from Adonai, had been entrusted to me. I was to love him, cherish him, and raise him to godly manhood. Through his perfect tiny fingers and toes flowed the same blood that had inspired Judas Maccabaeus and filled the veins of John Hyrcanus, the high priest of Israel. This boy would receive anything and everything I had to offer.
I would always respect my husband—I owed that much to my uncle, who had lifted me from obscurity and allowed me the freedom to develop my mind and soul.
On the baby’s name day, when we circumcised him, I named him Hyrcanus, after my father-in-law.
“Mistress.”
I looked up from the blanket I was embroidering when I heard a warning note in Kissa’s voice. “Is something wrong?”
She gestured toward a pile of freshly laundered linens. “You did not bleed this month.”
I frowned as my thoughts flitted back over the past few weeks. “Are you certain?”
“I last prepared the woods for you during the full moon. Tonight the moon will be full for the second time since I last made preparation.”
Kissa was inordinately careful about preparing for my monthly bleeding. Our monthly courses usually coincided, so we would remain in my chamber together in order to av
oid spreading impurity throughout the house. But she was right—last month she had remained in my chamber alone.
I shrugged. “I am still nursing Hyrcanus. Perhaps that is why I have not bled.”
“You have never missed an entire month.” She arched a brow as she began folding the linens. “You should start counting.”
I smiled as Hyrcanus toddled by, mouthing a wooden block one of the servants had carved for him. Could I be pregnant again? Sometimes I wondered if my husband’s frantic couplings were enough to result in anything, but he had already given me one son. If Adonai chose to send me another baby as delightful as Hyrcanus, I would not mind being pregnant again.
I nodded and resumed my embroidery. “If you are right and I am carrying a girl, I will name it Kissa.”
She snorted. “Your husband would never allow that. And if you have another son?”
I lowered my needle. “I have always liked the name Ittamar. That was my father’s name.”
Kissa stacked the linens and set them in a basket. “The people will think even more highly of you if you bear another son. A woman who bears girls is weak; a woman who bears sons is strong. Everyone knows it to be so.”
“Do not count my sons too quickly,” I said, “for we are not certain of anything.”
I looked up as a servant stepped into the doorway and bowed. “A letter for you, mistress.” He extended a sealed scroll. “A rider brought it from Jerusalem.”
“For me?” I glanced at Kissa and saw the same surprise in her eyes. I had never received a personal letter. All correspondence usually went to Jannaeus, who then would give it to me.
“Thank you,” I said, taking the scroll. The servant waited while I broke the seal and unfurled the parchment. I glanced at the signature and smiled. “It’s from my uncle.”
Greetings, Shelamzion:
I hope this letter finds you well. Jannaeus writes that you and your son are doing well in Sepphoris, and the region is thriving under his supervision. I daresay you are guiding him in his endeavors, and for that I am most grateful. Of all my sons, Jannaeus needed the most guidance and the firmest hand, and you are the best suited to that task. You are slow to anger, quick to learn, and you have a most pleasant demeanor. Of all my acquaintances, you are the most qualified to tame a headstrong youth.
I had another reason for betrothing you to my son, one I have kept hidden from Jannaeus because I did not want to spoil the love between brothers. I married you to my third son and sent you to Galilee because I want to keep him away from Aristobulus and Antigonus. His older brothers are ambitious young men, and in their bold eyes I have recognized a lust for power, especially of late. They watch me like birds of prey, and I fear I cannot die soon enough to please them. They are close—a good thing—but I do not believe they will make room in their plans for another brother, especially one who could pose a threat.
I have sent Aristobulus and Antigonus to subdue an area near Mount Carmel, along the sea. We have Jewish settlements in that region and wish to connect them to our territories in Samaria. My sons may visit you and Jannaeus in due time.
I trust you are content. As long as you and Jannaeus are in Galilee, you are safely away from my elder sons’ thoughts.
I hope you are growing in experience and wisdom, and finding Adonai’s blessing.
May HaShem continue to bless you both.
John Hyrcanus
I read the letter silently, then slowly rerolled the scroll.
“Is there a response?” the servant asked.
I shook my head. “Nothing written,” I whispered, “but please convey my thanks to the courier. Have him spend the night under our roof, then tell him to return to my uncle. Ask him to tell the high priest that I am most grateful for his letter . . . and his wisdom. That is all.”
I waited until the servant left the room, then looked at Kissa. “My uncle says he sent us here to keep us away from Aristobulus and Antigonus, who have grown far too ambitious for his liking.”
Kissa frowned. “Will we never go back to Jerusalem?”
“Not for a while, I fear. We are to stay here so we can grow older and wiser.” I laughed. “My uncle seems to think that in ten years, Jannaeus will be closer to my age.”
Kissa snorted. “I doubt your husband will ever match you in knowledge or wisdom. He is neither pious nor studious.”
“But he has given me a son.” I looked over at my sleeping baby, content to know that HaShem had honored my obedience to my uncle by giving me a son.
Seven months later, Jannaeus insisted we name our second son Aristobulus, after the baby’s uncle. I reluctantly agreed and could not help wondering if he chose that name to curry favor with his elder brother.
For John Hyrcanus was a mortal man and would not live forever. When Judah Aristobulus inherited his father’s position, who knew what he might do?
I found it odd that although Judah Aristobulus and Antigonus were leading a campaign only a short distance away, they did not visit us, send greetings, or even ask for supplies. But soon we heard that the fighting had finished and the high priest’s sons had returned to Jerusalem. Both Jannaeus and I felt much relieved.
In those days I found my greatest joy in watching my sons grow. Hyrcanus, the firstborn, had inherited my disposition. He was a quiet child, reserved and undemanding. He entertained himself easily and loved being outdoors, collecting leaves, flowers, and unusual rocks. At the end of each day, when I went into the boys’ bedchamber to say good-night, he would happily show me the objects he had discovered on his walks.
Aristobulus, however, was clearly his father’s son. Rough and loud, the child came screaming out of my womb and woke the entire household at sunrise each morning. Aristobulus did everything with great energy and volume, just as young Jannaeus had, and was as active as his brother was calm. My second son could not entertain himself and was constantly tugging at me or Kissa, demanding that we read to him, feed him, or carry him. Each night, after putting Hyrcanus to bed, I would turn to embrace Aristobulus, yet he would wriggle free of my grasp and force me to give chase until I caught him.
“One night,” I told Kissa after the exhausting bedtime ritual, “I am going to chain that child to his bed.”
Every morning, after I had given my boys bread spread with honey, I would attempt to seat them next to me so that I could tell a story from the Torah. Hyrcanus always sat perfectly still, his eyes intent upon my face. Aristobulus would sit only until I began the tale, and then he would slip down and run through the garden, forcing Kissa to hurry away and catch him. In the beginning I was tempted to chase him as well, but Hyrcanus wanted to hear the story his brother ignored. So I shared my love of the Torah with Hyrcanus while Aristobulus squealed in the delight of evading Kissa’s grasp.
Long before my sons were born, I vowed I would never love one child more than another. HaShem knows I intended to keep my word, but when one child loves what you love and the other spurns wisdom, how can your heart keep from favoring one more than the other?
Jannaeus, of course, adored Aristobulus. Anyone could see why. I loved the boy, too, but at times I found it difficult to enjoy his company.
Sometimes I would look at my second son and try to recall what Jannaeus had been like as a child. I did not spend much time with Alena’s children, though I do remember that young Jannaeus was forever running away from his nurse and doing whatever he could to catch his older brothers’ attention.
If only my Aristobulus had been a little more like his brother.
I knew my feelings were not good. I knew a mother should be fair and not enjoy one child more than the other. I knew about the trouble unequal favor could produce. The Torah warned that discord resulted from unequal loving, for Jacob loved Joseph above all his brothers, and Rebekah favored Jacob more than Esau. And oh, the bitterness of the unloved brothers!
I tried to hide my feelings. I did not bestow favors on Hyrcanus without bestowing the same on Aristobulus. I did not compliment the elder w
ithout finding some praise for the younger. Yet the heart, deceitful and wicked though it is, will love whom it loves.
I could only pray that HaShem would change my heart . . . or keep my children from ever realizing my secret.
My husband matured a great deal while we lived in the Galilee region. He cultivated friendships with leaders of the Jewish villages, and when raiding Gentile invaders struck their vineyards and farms, Jannaeus took great delight in assembling an armed company and chasing the marauders back to their own territories.
After developing a taste for law-keeping, my husband had little patience with the Jews who came to him for the adjudication of smaller matters. He delighted more in action than in legal debate and did not possess the experience or wisdom to judge complicated cases. He frequently asked me to dispense judgment in his absence. I agreed to do so, and before long he became absent more often.
By the beginning of our seventh year in Galilee, we had effectively divided our responsibilities. With Kissa caring for the children, Jannaeus rode out with his army while I received petitioners every morning but the Sabbath.
The people came to me with problems great and small. Some dilemmas were easily settled by referring to the Torah; others required an application of common sense.
Two women came to me because they had been betrothed to the same man and he refused to marry either of them. A father came because his daughter had been raped in the field and found herself with child. A pair of quarreling neighbors came because one had stolen the affection of a village dog. The animal remained in the first man’s house day and night, frustrating the second man, who wanted the dog to guard the lambs in his courtyard. My ruling? Since the dog had been born in the wild, it should be free to make its home where it was most wanted. Both men were to keep their gates open at all times.
“But I cannot!” the second man blurted out. “My lambs would escape!”