Jerusalem's Queen--A Novel of Salome Alexandra

by Angela Hunt

  “Something for the grandchildren?”

  Her smile deepened. “Something for you. Come into the reception hall and I will make my meaning clear.”

  I trailed behind her, my curiosity rising as she went to the large table Jannaeus had built some years before. An artist had painted a map of the known world on the tabletop, with Jerusalem at the very center.

  “Here we are,” my mistress said, lightly pressing a fingertip to a miniature painting of the Temple. “But here”—her hand swept over the surface, crossing the desert, the land of the Nabateans, and into Egypt—“is where we will be in a few weeks.”

  I frowned at the map. “Are you traveling with the king?”

  She snorted softly. “You and I will make this trip alone—well, not completely alone because we will have a contingent of guards. But not so many as to draw unwanted attention.”

  I leaned closer to the map, in case I was missing a key part of a joke. “We are traveling to Egypt?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must have an audience with King Auletes.”

  “I do. But we are going to Egypt on your behalf, Kissa. We are making the journey for you alone.”

  Stunned by the delight on my lady’s face, I found myself unable to move.

  Shelamzion moved around the table, her fingers trailing over the bright blue waters. “You once told me that if you could have anything, you would want to return to Egypt and find your parents. I have not forgotten your wish, so last month I wrote Auletes and asked if we might visit his palace. I told him the truth about the purpose of our visit, and he has agreed to help find your mother and father. If they still live, I am sure he will search them out.”

  Ripples of shock spread outward from my center, tingling the crown of my head and numbing my toes. “Impossible,” I whispered.

  “Nothing is impossible,” Shelamzion said, her eyes sparkling.

  Somehow I broke free of my paralysis and caught her arm. “You do not have to do this. I know you are no longer comfortable in this palace. I know you are lonely and your husband brings you nothing but sorrow. But you do not have to do all this—”

  “It is the least I can do for one who has been so faithful.” She smiled, her eyes serene and compelling as she took my hands. “Let me take you back to Egypt. For a few weeks, let us forget about the trouble in Jerusalem and explore a new land together.”

  What could I say? I cast about for a reason to refuse her but came up empty-handed. I sighed. “If it will please you.”

  “It will.” A soft and loving curve touched her lips. “Jannaeus does not need me. My children do not need me. So pack a trunk, my friend, and dream of finding your family. We leave at sunrise tomorrow.”

  We traveled by coach, a stifling box with narrow windows that did little to ventilate the conveyance. Shelamzion kept saying that her uncle’s coach had been far more comfortable, but then I reminded her that she had been traveling north on that journey and not across a desert.

  During occasional glimpses through the windows, I saw thin clouds moving across the sky and barren trees stretching skeletal arms toward the heavens. The territory between Judea and Egypt was not fertile or beautiful, but sandy, with sterile dunes and broken rocks that marked the course of former waterways. An air of brooding desolation lay over the land, and I found myself wondering if Shelamzion had been so desperate to leave Jerusalem that she had traded unpleasantness for genuine discomfort.

  When we finally reached the verdant plain watered by tributaries of the Nile, I begged the driver to stop so we could disembark and stretch our legs. We stood by ourselves near the shoreline, breathing in the sights, sounds, and rich aromas of Egypt.

  “I remember this,” I said as those scents opened the door on a host of memories I had tried to lock away. “You can smell the loamy soil. You can smell the water, too.”

  Shelamzion inhaled deeply. “There is nothing like this in Judea. Does it bring back memories of your home?”

  I thought for a moment, then shook my head. “The last time I saw this water I was chained to a line of other slaves. It is not a memory worth reliving.”

  We climbed back into the coach and traveled farther down the king’s highway, finally entering Alexandria through one of the eastern gates.

  “At last!” Shelamzion rose on her knees to peer out the window, then settled on her pillow and smiled. “We are staying at the palace—the king has been most generous.”

  “Do you think he’ll see us tonight?”

  “I do not think so. He would not know when we were to arrive, so he will not be prepared. Perhaps tomorrow.”

  Before the hour passed, we arrived at the seashore. When we stepped out of the coach, armored guards pointed us to a dock where shallow boats waited to transport us to the palace.

  I walked behind Shelamzion, trying to imitate her calm and grace, though my heart was thumping loudly enough to be heard several paces away.

  The next morning we rose, bathed, and dressed in our best. Servants brought trays of fruit, bread, and honey. We ate our fill and washed everything down with lemon water. “I must say,” Shelamzion said, dabbing at her lips with a piece of linen, “the climate here is infinitely preferable to that of Jerusalem. The breeze is nearly constant, and the air feels so moist.”

  “We are at the seashore,” I said, suddenly realizing that this region was nothing like the Egypt I knew. “Memphis is much farther south.”

  A small boy entered our room and rang a bell. We looked up, and my mistress nodded. “Yes?”

  “The king will see you now,” the boy said and bobbed his shaved head. “The queen and the royal children are eager to meet you.”

  “Wonderful.” Shelamzion stood and brushed crumbs from her chiton. “Shall we follow you?”

  The boy smiled, revealing matching dimples, and I stood to follow my mistress. She walked forward, a picture of calm and confidence, while I padded behind her, wondering if I had finally come full circle.

  We followed the boy out of the building, down a marble walkway and through a beautiful garden of Greek design. We were led into an impressive marble building with columns as tall as four men standing atop each others’ shoulders. The floor beneath our sandals gleamed in the morning light, and sweet incense perfumed the air. A quartet of armed guards snapped to attention at our approach. The little boy trotted between them, so we continued to follow his lead.

  We entered an imposing chamber that appeared to be made of gold. Gold leaf covered the walls, golden tapestries hung from the ceiling, and golden candlesticks stood in the room’s corners. High clerestory windows allowed the sunlight to pour in, gilding the furniture and the carvings on the walls.

  On an elevated throne in the center of the space sat a clean-shaven man who had to be Ptolemy XII, known to his people as Auletes the Flute Player, because he was inordinately fond of music. He wore a Greek tunic, his curled hair gleamed with oil, and in his hand he held a golden cup, apparently filled with wine. His wife, Cleopatra Tryphaena, sat on a smaller chair at his side. Before the king and queen, seated on small benches, were the royal children—three girls and two boys.

  My mistress bowed deeply before the Egyptian king, and I did the same. He stood and extended his hand to Shelamzion; she accepted it, then rose and embraced the Egyptian queen, who did not appear to be thrilled by my mistress’s warm greeting.

  The royals exchanged formal salutations, though I barely heard the words, so anxious was I to see if the king had been able to find my family. Gift baskets were exchanged, accompanied by all manner of overblown compliments. Promises were made, enforced by false smiles and exaggerated posturing.

  Shelamzion then gestured to me, and I choked back a gasp. I had been startled by the unexpected turn of events, yet the king paid no attention to my reaction. He smiled at Shelamzion and clapped. I heard the creak of a door and turned in time to see a pair of guards approaching with a wizened couple between them.

  The man, who appeared to be a coll
ection of bones wrapped in skin and a kilt, walked with his head forward and his gaze lowered. He wore simple papyrus sandals, as did the woman next to him. She wore a linen tunic and a black Egyptian wig into which someone had woven colorful beads. Their lined faces looked up at me, and in that moment I realized they were supposed to be my parents.

  Silence fell like spring rain as we stared at each other. The king uttered a sharp command in Egyptian. In unison, the old couple released a surprised cry, but they were poor actors.

  What was this? Though I no longer retained any memories of my parents’ faces, this couple appeared no older than I. And my parents were poor, with no prospects for wealth. Yet this woman had beads in her wig, a luxury no poor person could afford.

  Comprehension seeped through my confusion. Shelamzion had asked the king to search for my parents. He must have done so, though he might not have expended much effort, and when he could not find them he commanded these two strangers to play the part rather than disappoint Judea’s queen.

  I could not disappoint Judea’s queen, either. I could not denounce these two as imposters, nor could I be rude and accuse the king of trickery.

  So we each had a role to play. Forcing a smile, I stepped forward and knelt before the man and woman. Though I could no longer speak Egyptian, in Greek I told them I was their daughter, that I had come a long way, and I was happy to see them well and prosperous.

  I gestured to the Judean guards who had entered with us. One of them brought over a basket containing honey, dates, and expensive fabrics from the Galilee region. I laid these gifts at the couple’s feet, thanked them once again, and looked at my mistress with a silent plea for release.

  Shelamzion had always understood me. With a grace honed through years of diplomatic experience, she thanked the king and queen for their hospitality and asked if we could enjoy their country a few days more before returning home. Though Auletes pressed her to stay longer, Shelamzion replied that she had important responsibilities in Judea and could not remain in the lovely land of Egypt as long as she wished.

  We left the royal reception hall and did not speak until we reached the privacy of our own chamber. Then I sank to my bed, stared at the linen cover, and burst into tears.

  “They . . . are not my parents,” I said, my words strangled by sobs. “I am sixty-six years old. That woman was my age or younger. And the man, as well.”

  Shelamzion sat across from me and clucked in sympathy. “Auletes made an effort,” she said. “That is something.”

  I nodded, not wanting to appear ungrateful. I met her searching gaze. “I would like to visit Memphis before we go. Let me look around to see if I remember anything. After that, we can return to Jerusalem.”

  “Are you sure?” Dewy moisture filled Shelamzion’s brown eyes. “I want you to be happy. If that is your lifelong wish . . .”

  “I think—” I hiccupped a sob—“for years I have labored under a delusion. I have been angry with my parents and I have grieved their loss. I promised the gods a thousand sacrifices if they would send me home, but they did nothing. I thought I no longer had a home, no place to belong. But this morning, when I looked into the faces of those strangers, I realized the truth.”

  “And what is that?”

  I tried to control my emotions, but my chin quivered and my eyes filled despite my resolve. “My home is in Jerusalem, and you are my family, Shelamzion. You have been my family since the day we met.”

  My mistress’s eyes softened. “I know you are free now, but promise you will never leave me.”

  “Where would I go?” I laughed, warmed by the realization that my restless spirit had quieted. Inexplicably exhausted, I stretched out across the bed and pillowed my head on my arm. “If you want to return home straightway, I do not need to go to Memphis.”

  Shelamzion, too, stretched out on her bed and yawned. “I am in no hurry to climb back into that wooden box. We can travel to Memphis, and if you do not mind, we can also visit the temple at Leontopolis.”

  “You wish to visit an Egyptian temple?”

  She shook her head. “Simeon ben Shetah told me about it. It is a Jewish temple, built years ago by a Zadokite priest. He used to say Egypt had an illegitimate temple with a legitimate priest, while Jerusalem had a legitimate temple with an illegitimate priest.”

  I frowned. “What would—I mean, would it be troublesome for your husband if you were seen at this other temple?”

  Lines of concentration deepened beneath her eyes. “You are right. I had not considered the consequences. I cannot go there, though I would dearly love to see it.”

  The idea came as easily as breathing. “I could go. You could wait in the coach while I go in to worship.”

  “Yes.” A hopeful glint came to my mistress’s eyes. “And you will tell me all about it?”

  I nodded, thrilled to do this for her. “I will.”

  Heliopolis lay only a day’s journey north of Memphis, so Shelamzion decided that we would visit my birthplace first and stop by the temple on our way home.

  When we arrived in Memphis, Shelamzion asked the driver to stop at a bazaar. We stepped out and tightened our himations to shield our faces from an abrasive wind.

  “Where do you want to go?” Shelamzion asked.

  I looked right and left, floundering in indecision. The place reminded me of the market in the Valley of the Cheesemakers, complete with merchants, haggling housewives, and children, who scampered around their mothers’ feet. I breathed in the odors of open sewers, overripe fruit, and donkey dung, then looked away. “I could see this very thing at home.”

  Shelamzion smiled. “Let us walk on.”

  With two guards for company, we walked past the marketplace and entered a wealthy area, which we quickly traversed. Four streets farther on, we found ourselves on an unpaved road lined with shanties and mud-brick huts. Women squatted outside the unsteady shelters, frying small bits of meat over burning sticks. The sight of a discarded bit of rat fur brought back memories of the siege outside Jerusalem, and I shuddered. Shelamzion must have experienced the same memory, because she put a hand on my shoulder and turned to face me.

  “Does any of this evoke a memory?”

  “Not of Egypt,” I said. “Only of Jerusalem.”

  “Shall we continue, then?”

  I did not need to be asked again. Before leaving, I bent and gave a poor woman a silver coin, then caught up with Shelamzion and hurried back to the coach.

  We traveled through the night and stopped at an inn in Leontopolis to wash and break our fast. When ready, we packed our things and returned them to the coach, then had the driver take us to the Jewish temple. The Sabbath had come and gone, so the temple was not crowded.

  “Go,” Shelamzion said, opening the door of the coach. “And be sure to make note of all the details. I want to hear about everything you observed when you return.”

  I nodded, stepped from the coach, and pulled my himation closer about my head and shoulders. I did not know if anyone at this temple would be offended by an Egyptian woman in the outer court, but I could always leave if someone voiced an objection.

  The building was rectangular, similar to the Temple in Jerusalem, with white limestone steps leading up to pillars that outlined a small porch. The double doors stood open as if in invitation, so I swallowed hard and entered.

  The beauty of the place, fully visible because so few people were present, nearly took my breath away. The long, narrow space was divided in two. The nearest section, I knew, was for worshipers, the second reserved for priests. The walls were paneled with fragrant cedarwood, the floor with cypress and inlaid with gold. Intricate designs of flowers, palm trees, and cherubim decorated the walls and crowned two massive pillars.

  Behind a dividing rail stood the Holy of Holies, separated by a linen curtain. I could not see into the sacred space but knew the place was reserved for the high priest when he made the annual sacrifice on the Day of Atonement.

  I turned slowly in t
he room, mentally recording the details—the gold, the detailed pomegranates carved into the wood, the petals on the flowers. Two cherubim with massive outstretched wings stood on either side of the holy place. They looked like sphinxes—lions with human heads. Had an Egyptian artist carved them?

  I was about to leave when a priest entered and began lighting incense. I bowed and felt my breath being whipped away as a soundless voice overshadowed my awareness:

  I am Adonai your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, to be your God. I am Adonai.

  I glanced around, certain that others must have heard the voice. But the priest continued lighting the incense, and a woman at prayer did not move.

  Then a second priest entered and walked to a platform where he picked up a scroll. Without looking up he began to read the text in Hebrew:

  “In that day five cities in the land of Egypt will speak the language of Canaan, swearing allegiance to Adonai-Tzva’ot. One used to be called the City of the Sun.”

  Certainly the words referred to Heliopolis, the district where we were.

  “In that day there will be an altar to Adonai in the middle of the land of Egypt, and next to the border a pillar to Adonai. It will be as a sign and a witness to Adonai-Tzva’ot in the land of Egypt. For they will cry to Adonai because of oppressors, and He will send them a savior and defender—and He will deliver them . . . So Adonai will strike Egypt—striking yet healing—so they will return to Adonai, and He will respond to them and heal them.

  “In that day there will be a highway from Egypt to Assyria, and the Assyrians will come to Egypt, and the Egyptians to Assyria, and the Egyptians will worship with the Assyrians.

  “In that day Israel will be the third, along with Egypt and Assyria—a blessing in the midst of the earth. For Adonai-Tzva’ot has blessed, saying:

  ‘Blessed is Egypt My people,

  And Assyria My handiwork,

  And Israel My inheritance.’