by Angela Hunt
Jannaeus’s brows rushed together, but then he nodded and sat as well.
I smoothed my gown and met my husband’s eyes. “I have heard, husband, of many deaths in Judea. I have heard that this Ptolemy Soter has terrorized our people and waged war against his mother on our land.”
Steadily holding my gaze, Jannaeus nodded.
“I also know that Cleopatra III has always been a friend to Israel. She has Jewish commanders in her army and has always been kind to the Jews residing in Alexandria. Having her as an ally would be good for Judea—as I am sure you are aware.”
He nodded once more. “I know all this.”
“I knew you would.” I smiled, remembering several Egyptian caravans that had arrived at the high priest’s palace. Egyptian dignitaries often visited John Hyrcanus, though young Jannaeus had never seemed to pay them any attention.
“Ptolemy Soter will never be a friend to Israel,” I continued. “I am sure you have realized that it is in our best interests to meet with Cleopatra. Promise her whatever you must in order to win her affection. Only then, I fear, will Judea be safe from Egyptian domination.”
The line of my husband’s mouth tightened, and a muscle flicked at his jaw. The idea had to be repugnant to a man who saw himself as Alexander the Great, but surely he would realize that capitulation was the only way to achieve any sort of victory.
“Egypt was once our taskmaster,” he said with a credible attempt at calm, marred only by the thickness in his voice. “How can the high priest of Israel willingly kneel before an Egyptian queen? What would the people say?”
I smiled. “The people do not need to know what happens between you and Cleopatra. What they will know is that you negotiated a peace, and Soter left our land. They will be grateful for your skills as a diplomat, and they will revere you as high priest and king.”
“Do you think I care about what the people think?”
I closed my eyes lest he glimpse the storm raging in my soul. Jannaeus did not care if the people thought him a murderer, an adulterer, and a blasphemer, but he would care a great deal if they despised him enough to overthrow him. And they would surely reach that point if he did not convince the Egyptians to leave Judea.
“The time has come,” I announced, firming my voice, “and you must visit Cleopatra. Any delay gives her more time to see how pleasant this land is, and how easily she could expand her territory.”
“I cannot do it.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “How can I lower myself to beg for what is already mine?”
“Because tomorrow it may not be yours,” I said. “I have heard that some of the queen’s counselors are urging her to annex Judea. What would become of our Promised Land if she did? The blasphemies committed by Antiochus Epiphanes would pale in comparison to the blasphemies of an Egyptian queen and her pantheon of foreign gods.”
“Out!” I flinched as Jannaeus lifted his arm and pointed to the guards stationed at the doorway of his tent. “All of you, out!”
The guards and servants bowed and hastily retreated, leaving us alone.
“You must gather gifts for her,” I said, softening my voice, “and you must have your servants polish your armor. You will take gold and silver and pearls—the finest you can procure—and you must not wait. Delay could be fatal . . . for all of us.”
Jannaeus leaned forward in his chair and covered his face with his hands. For a moment I thought he might weep, but then he lifted his head. “Alexander was never brought so low,” he said, staring at something beyond my field of vision. “His wife never told him what to do.”
I could have said so many things. I could have chided him for coveting a Gentile city, for misleading Soter while negotiating with Cleopatra, and for not adequately protecting the ravaged villages of Galilee. Instead, I thought it wiser to soothe him.
“Alexander’s generals told him what to do,” I said. “And your general, Ezra Diagos, has already sent a message to the queen. Together we will go to Scythopolis in Samaria, where Cleopatra waits for you.”
“The Samaritans hate me,” Jannaeus mumbled. “They have not yet forgiven my father for destroying their temple.”
“If you want to retain your position,” I said, reminding him that the stakes were personal as well as national, “you will kneel before her and offer your gifts. Then you will go home to Jerusalem and rule your people well.”
He pressed his hands together and sighed, then looked up at me. “It will be as you say, Salome. I have no other choice.”
I bowed and gave him a genuine smile. “Honor HaShem, husband, and know that I support you now even as I did in Galilee. When this is over, you will be as beloved as you were in those days.”
Offering him hope and the promise of adulation, I left my husband alone in his tent.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Kissa
A report reached us by messenger: Ptolemy Soter and his mercenaries had sailed back to Cyprus, the island to which his mother had earlier banished him. Jannaeus, king of Judea, met with Cleopatra III, and that queen allowed him to keep his throne largely because a Jew named Ananias, one of her generals, told her that to do otherwise would antagonize the Jews of Egypt.
In a personal note delivered into my hand, Shelamzion wrote:
How fare my sons? The worst part of all this, my friend, is realizing that Ptolemy Soter was Cleopatra’s own dear son. I will never understand how the bonds of familial love can become so feeble that a son would make war against his mother and a mother fight against her son.
I trust my children are well, for how could they be otherwise in your care? Kiss them for me and tell them I will be home soon. The king and I will return together. According to the terms of the treaty with Egypt, Jannaeus must not wage war against Egypt again, so I am filled with hope and peace.
Shelamzion’s letter should have brought me great joy, but instead my heart ached as I rolled up the scroll. Her sons had done well during the weeks she remained away, but her mother . . .
Sipporah was gone.
Shelamzion had not spent much time with her mother since becoming queen, yet the fault was not entirely hers. Day by day, Sipporah had retreated into a private world of her own, a place inhabited by dire memories and the ghost of her daughter. The servants took care of her, making certain she was bathed, clothed, and fed, while Sipporah, when she spoke at all, credited these kindnesses to Ketura, not Shelamzion. I became convinced the woman thought Ketura was queen, not her younger daughter, and many times I stepped into the woman’s house and found her talking to Ketura. She would often stare at the space where the statue of Ketura had once stood—it vanished during Aristobulus’s reign—and speak as if her daughter’s ghost were in the room.
In her last days, however, Sipporah did not leave her bed. She had fallen, one of the servants told me, and after getting up she did not have the use of her right arm or leg. Even the right side of her face seemed ineffective, so eating became difficult.
“What will we tell the queen?” one of the anxious maids asked when I stopped by the house where Shelamzion and I had become fast friends. “We have not failed in our duty—”
“The queen will understand,” I assured them. “Her mother has been . . . unwell for some time.”
Now she was dead.
I moved to the balcony and looked past the courtyard, into the busy street where Shelamzion and Jannaeus would soon appear. I had hoped to understand the Jewish God one day, but certain situations left me more puzzled than ever. HaShem, it seemed to me, did not allow His people to experience joy unless it was accompanied by a commensurate portion of sorrow.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Shelamzion
Amid great celebration, Jannaeus and I returned to Jerusalem. People lined the streets waving palm branches as we entered the city, and the cheers continued until we passed through the gate at the high priest’s palace. Even our servants were jubilant, apparently believing their king had won a great victory over the Egyptians.
/> Only a handful of us knew that Cleopatra had gone back to Alexandria because she was a wise woman who prized peace. No one outside the king’s inner circle knew that Jannaeus had groveled before the Egyptian queen and promised to send her an annual tribute of gold if she would allow him to retain his position and power.
Cleopatra had looked at me as my husband knelt at her feet, and from her expression I could see that she understood more than she would admit. Like me, she stood as an older wife behind an impetuous young co-ruler. “Alexander Jannaeus,” she said, her throaty voice rolling like thunder through the room, “I will let you keep your kingdom if you agree to this treaty. You will not engage any Egyptian army in battle. You will not infringe upon our territory, and in the spring of each year you will send us one hundred pounds of gold.”
Jannaeus bowed his head. “I will agree to your terms.”
I gave the queen a look of relieved thanks, which she acknowledged with the smallest softening of her eyes. Then I folded my hands and waited for my husband to stand and put his signature on the document.
Cleopatra and Jannaeus had signed the treaty, and I could see great value in it. One hundred pounds of gold was but a token gesture to remind Jannaeus that he remained in Cleopatra’s debt. The treaty gave us a secure western border and would keep my husband from the battlefield. Jannaeus’s pride might have suffered in his encounter with the Egyptian queen, but Judea would survive, and that mattered more than anything else.
Only after disembarking from the coach did I spot Kissa with my sons. I knelt and greeted the boys with open arms. I wanted to sit and listen to all their stories, yet something in Kissa’s usually pleasant expression seemed off.
“I will find you later,” I told my sons. “Run along while I speak to Kissa.”
As I turned to face my handmaid, I noticed several hired mourners in the courtyard. They were not wailing but sat silently . . . as if waiting. Cold fingertips skipped down my spine. “Who died?”
Kissa lowered her head. “Your mother.”
I blinked. “Was she ill?”
Kissa sighed heavily. “You have been away many weeks. Your mother grew weaker and could not get out of her bed. In the end, she could not—would not—eat. She died on Shabbat, several weeks ago.”
I nodded as the world spun slowly around me. “Is she . . . can you take me to her?”
“Come with me,” Kissa said.
Not knowing when I would return, Kissa had asked an embalmer to prepare my mother’s body. Mother now lay on a table in an empty storage room, her only company the statue of my dead sister.
I blew out a breath when I saw it. “Where did that come from?”
Kissa folded her arms. “One of the slaves found it at the bottom of a trash heap. He remembered your mother having it when—”
“I remember.” I gazed at the carved stone and wondered if its perfect face would ever match that of an actual human girl. “When Mother was sick, did she call for me? Tell me the truth, please.”
Kissa drew a deep breath, then exhaled in a rush. “Your mother called for Ketura. She spoke to her as if she were in the room. She slipped away, a little more each day, until she breathed her last.”
I swiped at the tears clinging to my lower lashes. My tears did not spring from a sudden realization that I would no longer have my mother’s love, for I had never really possessed it. She had given all her love to Ketura and had none left for me.
But HaShem had not left me wanting. My father had loved me dearly, and Uncle had always spoken to me with respect and affection. Alena had been fond of me, and Kissa had remained by my side for years.
“Have her placed in the royal tomb,” I said. “And you had better return that”—I nodded to the statue—“to the garbage heap. Others would not understand.”
Kissa nodded. “I will see to it.”
I left the storage room and realized I was crying only when I felt full, round drops running over my cheeks. I did not weep for myself. Long ago I had learned how to make my own way in the world. I wept for my mother, who wanted more than anything to see one of her daughters grow up and marry a wealthy man with power and position. She had pinned all her hopes on Ketura, and so great was her blind obstinacy that she was not aware when her dreams and yearnings were fulfilled in a totally unexpected way.
“Good-bye, Ima,” I whispered as I wiped the wetness from my cheeks. “Thank you for teaching me to always keep my eyes open to the workings of HaShem in the world.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Shelamzion
For the next few years, Jannaeus set aside his territorial ambitions and focused on nonmilitary pursuits. Privately, I told Kissa that he had shifted his focus to what the Greeks called hedone, or pleasure. Though my husband openly indulged in concubines and mistresses, I could not be his conscience. I could only be his wife.
Sometimes, as I sought to settle an argument between our sons or stared at Jannaeus’s empty couch at a banquet, I wondered why he bothered to remain my husband. The Pharisees were quick to divorce a wife for any cause, while the Sadducees, the group with whom Jannaeus had aligned himself, did not allow divorce except in the case of sexual infidelity. Since Jannaeus knew I had not been unfaithful, he had to remain married to secure the Sadducees’ approval. He could have changed his allegiance to the Pharisees and divorced me, but then he would have had to adhere to the Law, which would have disallowed his pursuit of pleasure.
Therefore we remained married in the eyes of God and men.
Did he regret marrying me? Probably not, for I had proved useful on several occasions. And whenever the Pharisees condemned his unrighteous manner of living, Jannaeus always pointed to me, as if my obedience to the Law could atone for his disobedience.
Knowing that I could not force my husband to repent of his unrighteous practices, I decided to focus on my own spiritual life. I asked Simeon ben Shetah to find a suitable havurah in Jerusalem, then I eagerly joined. I took an oath of obedience to the group’s rules of food and ritual purity, and Kissa and I attended meetings whenever we could. We left the palace in plain clothing and wore veils to obscure our faces. If any of the other members knew who we were, they were kind enough not to draw attention to us.
During the meetings of the havurah, a Torah teacher would explain the reasons behind some of the oral traditions—laws that went far beyond the six hundred thirteen laws given to Moses at Mount Sinai and written in the Torah. Animals, for instance, could not righteously be sold to non-Jews lest they be used for pagan sacrifices. Untithed produce could not be sold to non-Jews lest it then be resold to a Jew who did not know the produce had not been properly tithed. Slaves who expressed a desire in knowing Adonai and following the Law could not be sold lest their spiritual desire be quenched by uncertain circumstances.
“Ritual purification,” one Torah teacher explained, “is a sign of spiritual purification. But no amount of washing or ablution will purify anyone who remains an unrepentant transgressor at heart. Ritual purity is simply a manifestation of the state of the individual.”
“But why,” a man in the crowd asked, “do we make purity harder than the written Law demands? If the Law says I must wash before eating, why do you say we must wash three times?”
“Ah.” The Torah teacher bobbed his head. “The Law is so sacred that it must be protected by a hedge, or fence, to keep us from offending inadvertently. If you wash three times before eating, have you not obeyed the Torah?”
The questioner considered a moment, then nodded.
The Torah teacher smiled. “So you have protected the sacred Law. If the written Law says not to take more than ten steps on Shabbat, and I tell you not to take more than five, have you broken the Law if you slip and take six? That is why we make purity more rigorous than the Law demands. Our halakhah, or way of living, guards the Law and protects it.”
Why, I wondered idly, did the Law need protecting? Was it a living thing that could be wounded or killed?
Because
I was a woman, I did not ask my questions in public. I determined to offer them to Simeon ben Shetah when I had opportunity. But until I knew the answers, I would be scrupulous regarding the Law. I had to set an example for others.
One night I stepped into the triclinium, where servants were preparing food on silver plates. One of the young girls had a red spot on the back of her tunic, and I suddenly realized she was a niddah, a menstruating woman and therefore unclean. Everything she had touched—plates, linens, trays, and food—would have to be destroyed.
“Stop!” I shouted. The servants froze in place. I looked directly at the girl and told her to go outside the kitchen and wait for instructions. When she had left, I had the other servants throw out the food, linens, and the trays. The silver plates could be saved, if they were melted down and remade. The fire would purify them.
I was exhausted by the time the banquet ended. As Kissa helped me prepare for bed, she asked why I had gone through such trouble to have the servants make more food, find more linens, and use other plates and trays.
“The first group was unclean,” I mumbled as she pulled my chiton over my head. “I could not have my guests touch unclean items or they would be unclean, as well. If that girl had touched the furniture, I would have brought in other couches.”
“And you would have destroyed the unclean ones?” Kissa shook her head. “It is a wasteful practice.”
“That girl should never have been working during her time of impurity,” I said, holding out my arms so Kissa could pull up my nightgown. “Just as you and I do not go out when we are bleeding.”
Kissa made discreet clucking noises as she fastened my gown. “I do not understand your rituals. You burn what could be washed. At the end of the bleeding, you require a woman to bathe in running water when even your Torah does not require it.”
“What?” I turned. “Of course the Torah requires it. Bathsheba was in a mikvah when David saw her bathing.”