by Angela Hunt
I imagined all sorts of scenarios for Aristobulus and Antigonus, whom I had once loved as younger brothers, but could never have imagined what actually happened just before Sukkot. I learned the details from Kissa, who heard them from a servant at the high priest’s house. As the streets of Jerusalem echoed with the cries of mourners, Kissa came home to tell the story.
The marketplace rumors were true. Judah Aristobulus had locked himself away in the Temple fortress because he believed his brother was preparing to overthrow him. He had even given his guards a standing order—if Antigonus appeared in his armor, they were to execute him immediately.
When Antigonus arrived in Jerusalem to celebrate the Festival of Tabernacles, Judah Aristobulus sent a message as a test of his brother’s loyalty: Come to me, but unarmed.
Salina—or one of her servants—intercepted the courier and substituted a different message: The king yearns to see your new armor. Wear it when you visit him in the Baris.
So, fully armed and armored, Antigonus went to the Temple. Happily, or so the rumors reported, he trotted down the stairs leading to the underground passageway that ended at the Baris. When the guards at the entrance saw a fully armed warrior approaching, they killed him without hesitation.
The news of Antigonus’s death spread throughout the city like a contagion. Judah the Essene was among those at the Temple to celebrate Sukkot, and when he heard where Antigonus died, he was perplexed . . . until someone pointed out that the underground tunnel was known as Strato’s Tower.
My heart twisted as Kissa told me the story. “Oh, those poor boys,” I whispered, seeing their young faces in a flash of memory. “I am glad Uncle and Alena are not alive to hear this. What a terrible tragedy.”
“The story gets worse,” Kissa said. “But if you would rather not hear it—”
“Tell me.” I looked her in the eye. “I would know everything.”
Kissa drew a deep breath. “After hearing that Antigonus was dead, Aristobulus fell ill. They say he became sick with pain in his gut and lost his mind. He wandered about the Baris and pounded on the door of the chamber that held Jannaeus and the other two brothers, but he would not speak to them. Then he began vomiting great quantities of blood.”
I made a face even as some speculative part of my brain summoned up a recollection of Grypus walking with me in his garden. He had pointed at various plants and mentioned one that could make a man vomit blood.
“A servant came to clean up the mess,” Kissa went on, “and as he was leaving, the slave slipped and spilled the king’s blood on the very spot where the blood of Antigonus had stained the stones. When the king heard about that, he cried out, saying he would not be able to escape the wrath of Adonai but would have to pay for his brother’s murder. Though his wife and servants tried to calm and console him, he would not be comforted. He sank onto his bed . . . and died.”
As Mother wept quietly in her corner, I closed my eyes. Salina had been desperate when we last saw her. Desperate enough to use poison? Perhaps.
But had her desperation been motivated by a desire to be rid of a troublesome husband or an eagerness to rule Judea on her own?
Judah Aristobulus’s reign over Judea lasted only one year.
I was not surprised to receive a summons from the high priest’s palace the day after his death. The two brothers had been quickly buried—side by side, as they had lived—in a Hasmonean tomb. Since Salina had no children, all Jerusalem waited anxiously to hear who would be the next high priest and king.
The king’s widow would not make them wait long.
I went to the high priest’s palace alone, sauntered through the courtyard gates, and looked at the buildings I had once called home. I could almost see Mother sitting on the porch of our small house and hear the clatter of Uncle’s coach over the paving stones. Alena used to look out of that upper window, her face alight whenever she saw her husband approaching . . .
I blinked the images of the past away and forced myself to move forward. I crossed the threshold and found myself in that beautiful vestibule. I was about to turn into the reception hall when a priest stopped me. “Salome Alexandra?”
I nodded.
“Salina Alexandra would like to see you privately. Come with me.”
I found Salina in the high priest’s bedchamber, sitting on the bed and wearing a simple tunic with her hair down. Like a proper grieving widow, she had not adorned herself with cosmetics or jewelry.
“Shelamzion.” She stood to embrace me, then gestured to a padded bench—a bench I had used many times when I visited Alena in the same room. “Please,” Salina said, sitting again. “I need to tell you what will happen next.”
I took the seat she offered, folded my hands, and studied her face. She did not look like a murderous conspirator, but neither did she look like the wild-eyed girl who had visited me days ago. I had never seen a woman so calm and self-possessed.
“Before you say anything,” I said, “I know about the poison. I know you told Antigonus to wear his armor because you knew the king had given an order to kill any armed man who approached the Baris.”
Her brows rose, delicate arches above bold eyes. “John Hyrcanus always said you were clever.”
“If you want my approval—”
“I am not asking for anything, cousin. I am not explaining anything. But I will say this—I saw the situation in Judea more clearly than anyone, for I knew Aristobulus better than anyone. Someone had to do something.” A smile flickered over her lips. “I have no time now for idle chatter. What you need to know is this: Aristobulus’s will declares that I will become queen and rule Judea.”
I nearly choked on the bitter laugh that rose in my throat. Somehow I clamped it down, even though I wanted to stand and leave the room as quickly as I could. I wanted nothing to do with murder or the clear-eyed, manipulative woman before me.
“I know what you’re thinking”—a corner of her mouth twisted—“and you are wrong. I brought you here because my first act as queen will be to release your husband and his brothers from prison. My second act will be to relinquish the throne and crown your husband king. The Sanhedrin will anoint him as high priest shortly thereafter.”
I sat completely still, blank, amazed, and shaken. “You—Jannaeus. Why him?”
“Because,” she said, “he knows his place.”
I did not know what she meant by that, but she gave me no time to question her further.
“Soon,” she finished, “you will be queen. I hope you can find some joy in it.”
She stood and abruptly dismissed me as a wall of whispering approached us. A group of guards came into the room along with Jannaeus, Absalom, and Elias—all of them thin but alive and well.
Without looking at me, Jannaeus stepped forward and knelt on one knee before Salina Alexandra. She gave him a small smile, then took a step back and lowered herself to the floor in a formal bow.
I looked around. Behind me, the servants, guards, and even Absalom and Elias were doing the same. Though my mind spun with bewilderment, I commanded my limbs to obey and sank to the floor.
Jerusalem was about to receive a new king.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Shelamzion
Queen.
I walked up the stone staircase of John Hyrcanus’s former home, past the reception room where I used to observe him, and past the curious servants watching from the vestibule.
I never wanted to be queen. In all my thirty-seven years, I never dreamed I would be. But here I was, married to Alexander Jannaeus, the twenty-three-year-old king of Judea and high priest of Israel.
I entered the chamber where Uncle and Alena had slept. I saw the bed where Alena had proudly presented her new baby, Alexander Jannaeus, to a fourteen-year-old girl called Shelamzion.
The same bed Salina sat on when she told me her plan.
“I hope, Shelamzion, that my action will please you,” she had said when she visited our home.
How could it? How coul
d I live in this house as queen when that title rightly belonged to Alena? If not for the avarice of Judah Aristobulus, this would still be her home. If not for Salina’s conniving and Jannaeus’s ambition, this house might belong to someone far more deserving.
“Oh, Adonai,” I whispered, standing at the doors that opened onto the balcony, “give me wisdom and grant us grace. For the man I have married is not wise enough to be king.”
I had hoped my husband would mature during the months of his confinement. I had hoped he would develop a tender affection for his younger brothers and a deeper reverence for Adonai.
But after only a few weeks, I saw that he had done none of those things.
Within a year, both Absalom and Elias had joined Aristobulus and Antigonus in the family tomb. Elias had the temerity to attempt a coup, which Jannaeus easily put down by executing his youngest brother. Absalom was wise enough to stay away from the palace and its politics, but several months after Jannaeus claimed the throne, Absalom died under mysterious circumstances.
With four of John Hyrcanus’s five sons gone, only Jannaeus remained.
The night we received the news of Absalom’s death, I looked at my husband and realized we had become just like the Gentiles who ruled the empires around us. As a young girl, I was appalled to learn how the Ptolemies married their kin and murdered their siblings, but had we not done the same things? Had we not become like the pagans who did not know HaShem?
Uncle once told me that as long as we did not despise our Law, we had the freedom to adopt new ways and attitudes. Yet the more I considered the kingdom of Judea, the more resolute I became in my determination to serve Adonai and honor every jot and tittle of the Law.
In that moment I made HaShem a promise: I would send for Simeon ben Shetah, and I would devote myself anew to my Torah studies. I would study the Scriptures and the oral laws, and I would do my best to please Adonai and be an example to my husband and my precious sons. How else could I live in a family who only pretended to seek HaShem’s blessing?
Simeon would help me observe even the smallest portions of the Law, written and unwritten, and I would allow these to define every aspect of my life—how I ate, how I walked, how I worshiped, and how I dealt with Gentiles. I would observe the Sabbath faithfully. So long as my monthly courses flowed, I would remain apart from others and end my time of separation with a proper mikvah. I would do all this and more in order to demonstrate righteousness in a palace where righteousness had become rare.
At home I would be a virtuous mother to my sons. I would teach them the Law of the Lord, and I would encourage them to seek wisdom above all else. I would tell them stories of our forefathers, those who followed Adonai and those who did not, so my sons could learn from their examples.
I would be a virtuous wife to my husband. Though he did not seek my bed as often as he once had, I would be faithful to him and modest in my speech, dress, and conduct. I would encourage him to love HaShem and seek righteousness, and I would offer to help as I had in Galilee. Jannaeus was not a man who liked to sit and listen, so if I could listen to the problems of the people in his stead, I would.
Because my year of living among the people had taught me that they were not happy with the events of the past two years. Most of them missed John Hyrcanus, and Aristobulus’s bloody reign had left them disturbed and disgusted with the Hasmoneans. If a new candidate appeared on the horizon, a righteous man from the tribe of Judah, they would fall to their knees and beg him to be their king.
Israel wanted a savior. The people’s longing for a fresh start was almost palpable in the city streets.
A new appreciation for the Pharisees and the Essenes bloomed in my heart. I had heard that many of the Essenes were planning to establish a community in the desert to prepare for the coming of the Messiah. Like me, they were no longer content to merely acknowledge the Law; they vowed to perform it and become living examples.
In stark contrast, my husband was a Sadducee, who cared nothing for talk of the coming Messiah, and he cared even less about the idea of an afterlife. His thoughts centered on living each day and taking pleasure where he could find it.
Yet I knew life did not end with death. David spoke of living after this life, and so did Job. Enoch and Elijah had been taken away, and where did they go? Surely they were with HaShem.
One day I would also be with Him. Until then, I would do my utmost to live a holy life. Every day I would ask HaShem to help my husband be the king he could and ought to be.
A king ought to be an example for his people. Likewise I would have to become an example for my king.
I do not know what my husband did to pass the time in prison, but eventually I realized that he must have whiled away the hours planning his first actions as high priest and ruler. I said as much to him at dinner one night.
“Husband,” I said, turning on my couch to better see him, “you have been so decisive since becoming king—one would almost think you knew you would be released.”
He gave a half smile. “I knew it would go one of two ways. Either I would die or I would sit on the throne. Aristobulus had no other options.”
“He could have freed you to come home to your family.”
Jannaeus shook his head. “He could not. So long as I lived, I could have led an insurgency against him, and he would have been a fool to take the risk. Live or die—the only two choices.”
And the reason he killed his two younger brothers.
“I am glad you were not executed,” I said, leaving a host of words unspoken. I could not hope to win my husband if I spent all my time berating him.
“Of course you are. Without me, you would be nothing.”
He was correct, and yet my spirit flared at his assertion. Kissa, Mother, and I had nearly chosen to move to Modein and live in poverty, but even as poor farmers we would never have been nothing.
Becoming king changed my husband in ways I could not have foreseen. He still had no patience for dealing with the problems of common people, and his vision for territorial expansion now extended far beyond Galilee. Not content to be a capable ruler, he aspired to the particular renown of Alexander the Great.
“I am Alexander,” he frequently boasted, reminding all who listened of his formal name. “I have his character and his genius.” He commanded the Jerusalem mint to produce coins that on one side displayed the lily, a symbol of Jerusalem, and on the other side an anchor, a symbol of the coastal territories he desperately desired to conquer.
Within a few months of his investiture, Jannaeus summoned his military chiefs. His first conquest, he informed me as a servant helped him into a new suit of armor, would be Ptolemais, a Galilean port city controlled by the Seleucids. “I have dreamed of capturing Ptolemais for years,” he said as the servant slipped a heavy coat of mail over his tunic. “When Ezra Diagos and I would ride through the Galilean hills, I would see that city gleaming on the western horizon. It is the perfect port, and we shall claim it for Judea.”
I smiled in wifely agreement, but my thoughts had been distracted at the mention of Jannaeus’s commander. “Will Diagos lead your army?”
“Who else is as cunning and brave?” Jannaeus flexed his arms, testing his freedom of movement. “I have sent for him. He is bringing five thousand mercenaries to Jerusalem, and we will leave for Ptolemais as soon as possible.”
“Diagos is coming here?”
My husband nodded absently, then raised his arms while his servant adjusted the belt. “The gold-handled dagger,” Jannaeus said, pointing to a selection of blades on a table. “And the sword.”
The servant slid these onto the belt, then fastened it and stepped back. Jannaeus put on his new silver helmet, shaped close to the head and topped with a red plume, then turned and admired his reflection in the large slab of polished granite he had installed in his bedchamber, a large space at the back of the house . . . and as far away from my room as it could possibly be.
“You look handsome,” I told him, hopin
g to say what he wanted to hear.
He smiled at his reflection, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. Then he turned to face me. “Tonight I will be out. If Ezra Diagos arrives early, you must keep him company at dinner. I will join you if I can.”
He moved toward the door, then paused to pour himself a glass of water, gargled, and spit into a basin. He then left the chamber, his red plume bouncing with every step.
With startling clarity, I realized where he was going. The gargling and spitting was a breath-cleansing ritual he used to perform just before climbing into my bed. If he was gargling in the middle of the day, he was off to see another woman.
I considered that revelation as if it were a stone in my hand. I studied it, marveled at it, searched my heart for some reaction to it . . . and discovered that I simply did not care.
Determined to remain above reproach despite my husband’s dalliances, I planned a dinner for myself, my sons, Simeon ben Shetah, and Ezra Diagos. I had the servants arrange the couches in the shape of a half-moon with the long side open for the servants. I would sit in the center and would not favor anyone with more attention than any other. I would definitely not favor Ezra Diagos, though I had thought about him many times since our first meeting in Galilee.
I cannot say why I thought about him. I was a married woman, a righteous woman, and I had no wish to betray my husband. But the commander was handsome, intelligent, and more clever than any man of my acquaintance. More than that, he laughed at my little jokes, which Jannaeus never understood, and he actually seemed to hear when he listened to me. A light filled his eyes when we talked, a gleam that led me to believe he might feel the same pleasure in my company that I felt in his.
Before dinner, I sat at my dressing table and tried to remain calm as Kissa did my hair. While my thoughts scampered about like squirrels, I took deep breaths and pretended that this dinner would be like any other.
Kissa pinned the last pearl into my hair. “Would you like to wear the blue gown?”