by Angela Hunt
That thought dredged up another, with a chill that struck deep in my heart: Alena. I had always thought her death a senseless tragedy, but perhaps I was wrong to think so. If she had not died in prison, how could she have survived knowing that Judah Aristobulus had killed Antigonus, and that her daughter-in-law had killed Aristobulus? Later, how could she live with the knowledge that Jannaeus had murdered Absalom and Philo Elias?
The grief at losing so many of her children would have destroyed her, and that same knowledge would devastate me, as well.
So what could I do?
I had been judging the cases of Jews for years, weighing facts and considering situations in the light of the Torah. But when it came to deciding between my two sons, I could not think clearly. Each day I woke and considered the question of succession, one day favoring Hyrcanus, and the next day Aristobulus. And by the end of each day, I arrived at the same conclusion: choosing either of my sons would invite disaster upon my family and my people.
Desperately I sought someone who could help me. Josu Attis, who had long been a friend, knew little of politics, so he would be of no help. Simeon ben Shetah was in Egypt, too far away to be of service. I dared not go to any of the Sadducees, for those power-hungry men were wealthy enough to have my entire family killed.
In truth, I had no one to turn to. Kissa was always with me, ready to listen and sympathize, but she was a second mother to my sons, and as confounded by her emotions as I was.
One name came repeatedly to my mind: Ezra Diagos. He would have answers for me; he would consider the situation dispassionately and would not be afraid to give me the hard truth. Oh, what a lovely relief it would be to hand my responsibilities over to him! However, Diagos was not my husband or my king.
Each morning I rose and went into my husband’s bedchamber, evicting the concubines so I could have a few private moments to converse with him. Jannaeus was rarely lucid on those occasions. He mumbled in his fever, calling out for his generals, his mistresses, and occasionally his sons. Each day I listened and grew ever more convinced that the physician was correct—these were the king’s last days.
One morning Jannaeus did not mumble but lay silent and still. Only by lowering my face to his could I detect any sign of life. He breathed still, but not deeply and not often.
I bit my lower lip. The urge that had brought me to this room now had a sharper spur; I had to either make a decision or compel Jannaeus to make the decision himself. As I stood there, about to drown in waves of confusion, I knew the consequences of that decision would echo throughout Israel and Judea for generations to come.
Was it possible that my entire existence had come down to this moment? Had HaShem worked in my life—moving me from Modein to John Hyrcanus’s house, marrying me to a boy, bringing me into contact with men like Josu Attis and Simeon ben Shetah and my teachers at the havurah—had He done all of that so I could make the right decision during this crisis?
The memory of an afternoon with Kissa brought a wry, twisted smile to my face. We had sat in my upstairs bedroom at this palace, and we had asked each other what we wanted most in the world. When pressed, I had said that I wanted to matter. To be important to someone . . . even lots of someones.
Oh, what fools children are! HaShem had honored my childish prayer, and what I did next would matter a great deal to millions in Judea.
I lifted my gaze to heaven and asked, “HaShem, will you honor my prayer for wisdom now?”
I heard no answer in the silent room but carried the problem with me as I went to bed.
The next morning I awoke to find Kissa fussing with the curtains in my bedchamber. I bade her a good morning, then sat up and saw that she was watching someone from the window. “What do you see out there?” I asked, half afraid to hear the answer. “Some form of protest?”
“No, mistress. I see the circle-drawer. He is speaking to a group outside the courtyard. I believe they are Sadducees.”
I tossed off the blanket and crossed to the window. A bearded man in a white tunic stood just beyond the courtyard gate, and a group of well-dressed men stood around him. They were listening to the bearded one with rapt attention.
I glanced at Kissa. “What did you call him?”
She laughed. “His name is Honi Ha-Meaggel, but people call him the circle-drawer because of what happened during the drought.”
I pulled up a chair and sat. “I am not sure I heard about this. Remind me, please.”
Kissa let the curtain drop and turned from the window. “During the last dry spell, a group of farmers sought out this Honi and begged him to intercede with HaShem to end the drought. So he drew a circle in the sand and vowed that he would not leave it until the skies opened with rain.”
“And?”
“It rained—a lot. But though the farmers were happy, the local Torah teacher was not. He said it was not right that a simple man like Honi should have direct access to HaShem. But now the people say this Honi is closer to Adonai than any man in Judea.”
Kissa went on, saying something about the man’s family, but I did not listen because my thoughts had turned inward. Could this Honi really speak directly to HaShem? Could he draw on the wisdom of Adonai? If he did, and if he were willing, could he help me decide what to do about the succession?
I stood, squeezed Kissa’s arm, and moved to the trunk that held my garments. “Go down to the guards at the gate,” I said, “and have them bring this rainmaker into the house. I would meet with him.”
Kissa hesitated. “Should I—do you want me to first make your hair presentable?”
I waved her off. “I care not for my hair. Fetch Honi at once. I would speak to him today.”
She hurried away, and I quickly pulled off my nightdress and stepped into a chiton. My fingers trembled as I fastened the broaches at the shoulders. Could HaShem have sent this circle-drawer to guide me? I would not know until I questioned the man myself.
I came downstairs and found Honi Ha-Meaggel waiting in the vestibule. “Good morning,” I said, hoping my desperation did not show on my face. “I was delighted to see you outside the gate.”
He bowed politely, then lifted his head and looked directly into my eyes. “I have heard many good things about you, Salome Alexandra. They say you are a righteous woman.”
I looked away as my cheeks grew warm. I could not say why his words embarrassed me—perhaps because this stranger seemed to look right through me, as if he could weigh my motives and my desires.
“Come.” I gestured to the large doors of the reception hall, and the guards opened them. I led the way into the room, but instead of walking to the grand chair in the center of the dais, I nodded at two chairs that had been placed beneath a window.
“Please, sit. Unless you are uncomfortable sitting with a woman who is not your wife.”
Many religious men would have refused to meet with me alone, but apparently Honi had no such reservations. He dropped into a chair as I took the other seat and faced him.
“This morning,” I began, “my handmaid related the story of how you brought rain during the last drought. Because I know how tales can be exaggerated, I would like to hear the account from your own lips so I can understand exactly what happened.”
Honi gave me a half smile. “It is no secret.”
“Good.” I folded my arms. “Please proceed.”
The small man smiled again. “It was the time of the early rains, but the clouds had not come. The people of my village asked me to pray for rain, so I told them to bring the clay Passover ovens inside lest they soften and crumble in the wet. I prayed, but no rain fell.”
I nodded. “So your prayer didn’t work.”
His dark brows rose. “They had no faith. They did not bring in the ovens.”
“Ah.”
He lifted a finger and continued. “So I drew a circle, stood inside it, and said to HaShem, ‘Master of the Universe, Your children have turned to me because they consider me a son in Your household. I swear by Y
our great Name that I will not move from here until You show compassion on Your children!’ Then a cloud blew in, and a few raindrops fell.”
My heart sank. “That is all?”
Again the uplifted finger. “So I commanded the people to take the ovens inside, and they did. Afterward I said to HaShem, ‘I didn’t pray for that kind of rain, but for rain that will fill the ditches, caves, and water cisterns.’ And rain began to fall most violently, scattering all who waited outside. So I said, ‘I didn’t pray for that kind of rain either, but for good, pleasant rain that will be a blessing.’ Then it began to rain normally, and it rained for so long that the villagers asked me to pray that it would cease.” The little man smiled and shrugged. “And that, my queen, is what happened.”
I stared at him, amazed at his friendly manner with the Master of the Universe. His manner of speaking was almost irreverent—why didn’t HaShem strike him down for blasphemy?
“Do you always speak to HaShem in that way?”
He tilted his head. “HaShem is my God, but He is also my friend.”
I blinked. “Your friend?”
The man leaned toward me. “I know what you are thinking. You are thinking that my manner is ill-advised and I am being irreverent. But doesn’t the Torah tell us that Adam talked with HaShem in the garden? And doesn’t the Torah say Moses was a friend of HaShem? As was our father Abraham.”
I nodded, too stunned to speak.
“Why, then, cannot I be a friend of HaShem? I have what those three had.”
“What . . . what is it you have?”
A smile sparkled in his eyes as he looked at me. “Faith. I believe HaShem is real, and I believe He means what He says. Few people truly do, you know.”
For a moment I felt a surge of energy, a momentary flash of insight. Words sprang to the tip of my tongue, then vanished. Something I had remembered. Something I had forgotten.
“The religious leaders aren’t happy with me,” Honi went on, crossing one leg as he made himself more comfortable. “They are so filled with learning and laws that they forget they are speaking to a real God when they pray. But the Creator of the Universe, blessed be He, is always there, listening and wanting to commune with us.”
“But—” I groped for words—“He has not spoken through His prophets in nearly four hundred years.”
“Perhaps the prophets are not listening? Or perhaps He has already said what we needed to hear. Either way, one thing is clear—HaShem is with us. He is still working out His plan to redeem Israel and bless—not destroy—the Gentiles.”
I held up my hand; I had heard enough for the moment. Any more and I would be too confused to ask the question that had spurred my invitation to this odd little man.
“You have given me much to consider.” I forced a smile. “And I appreciate your thoughts. But I asked you to come here because I need wisdom from a righteous man.”
Honi gestured through the window toward the courtyard, which at any time might be filled with priests, Sadducees, and Torah teachers. “Are there no righteous men in the high priest’s palace?”
“I need wisdom . . . from a man who talks with HaShem.”
Honi chuckled. “I will listen, my queen. But you do not want my wisdom. You want the wisdom of HaShem.”
“He doesn’t speak to me!” The cry broke from my lips, harsh and raw, and Honi’s eyes crinkled in sympathy.
“He doesn’t speak to me, either,” Honi said. “But He hears and He answers. Perhaps He will do the same for you.”
I pressed my lips together, not sure if I should proceed. I had spoken of my conundrum to no one else—to openly discuss the succession could be interpreted as treason. I could not speak of it to my sons, nor could I speak of it to the king’s advisors, for they would support the man most likely to advance their interests.
This Honi, however, seemed to have no particular interest in who inherited the throne. Now I would see if my instincts proved correct.
“I do not know what we will do when the king dies,” I whispered. “Each of my sons has his virtues and his faults, but neither is ready to become king. I am afraid that any decision I make will result in unrest, bloodshed, and further corruption of our holy Temple.”
Honi closed his eyes, nodded slowly, and pressed his hands together. He seemed to meditate for a moment. Then he opened his eyes and looked directly at me. “Salome Alexandra,” he said, a note of exasperation in his soft voice, “for what purpose did HaShem fashion and prepare you?”
I stared at him, both amazed and perturbed by the question. “I—I don’t know.”
“We are HaShem’s creations, and He sees the beginning and the end. He created you and brought you to this place, and I do not believe He would bring you unprepared.”
“I have never been anything but a woman who liked to learn.”
“And you have learned—from all those HaShem has brought into your life.” The man’s dark eyes sparkled. “Why must either of your sons rule Judea? You have another choice.”
I stared wordlessly at him, my heart pounding. What was he saying? Was he suggesting that I—
Surprise siphoned the blood from my head, leaving me dizzy. I grasped the arm of my chair in an effort to stop the room from spinning.
Me, rule Judea? I was a woman. My place was at my husband’s side, and the father’s portion always went to the firstborn son, unless . . . it went to his wife.
“Israel has never had a queen,” I said, speaking more to myself than to my guest.
“Yes, she has,” Honi countered.
“Athaliah.” I made a face. “An illegitimate queen and a wicked woman.”
“I was thinking of Salina Alexandra,” Honi answered. “And John Hyrcanus’s wife. Alena lost her authority when her son ambushed her, and Salina gave her authority away. But you could accept the crown, Salome Alexandra. You could be a righteous ruler. You could fulfill your desire to help Israel while you prepare your sons for their future roles in Judea.”
I sat in silence while I considered the idea from several angles. The circle-drawer was right—Alena had been chosen to rule, and so had Salina Alexandra, so the notion of a queen would not strike the people as preposterous. Furthermore, for generations the nations around us had been ruled by strong women who ably defended their nations’ territories. If I held the reins of power, I could correct Israel’s course. I could name Hyrcanus high priest, a job for which he was well suited, and place Aristobulus in charge of the military. My sons would feel valued and appreciated, they would grow in maturity and experience, and they would have responsibilities to keep them gainfully occupied.
If I were queen, I could right so many wrongs! I would permanently evict the concubines from the high priest’s house. I would ensure that girls had an opportunity to study Torah as well as boys. I would remind the people of Israel that HaShem intended us to be an example to the Gentiles, and to bless them. I would remove the barriers from the Temple, allowing everyone to observe the sacrifices and participate in the worship of Adonai. I would not persecute Essenes or Pharisees or Sadducees, but would allow all of them an equal voice in the Sanhedrin.
I would take every opportunity to remind our people that the Law did not exist for its own sake, but to guide us to belief in a real God who heard our prayers and would soon send His Messiah—that was what I could not remember! Before the Law even existed, Abraham believed God, and HaShem reckoned it to him as righteousness.
Kissa believed.
So did I.
A thrill shivered through my senses as I looked up and caught Honi’s gaze. “I will have to speak to the king,” I said. “I could not do this without his approval.”
Honi stood and bowed his head. “I will ask HaShem to guide you.”
The young concubine reluctantly slid off the bed at my approach. Jannaeus had rallied, for I found him propped up on pillows, his frame shrunken beneath the embroidered sheet. His cheekbones reminded me of tent poles stretched beneath canvas, and dark circle
s lay beneath his yellowed eyes. His lips, which had kissed me and commanded the deaths of thousands of godly men and women, had shrunken into thin gray lines.
I sat next to him, in a spot warmed by the concubine. Jannaeus appeared to be dozing, a fact confirmed by the physician when I looked at him with a question in my eyes.
“He was speaking a moment ago,” the doctor said. “You should find him coherent when he wakes.”
I slipped my hand over my husband’s, then drew upon all my stores of tenderness to whisper his name. “Jannaeus?”
Beneath the thin eyelids I saw movement.
“Husband? I have come to ask for your favor.”
His eyes opened and focused on my face. “Wife?” His voice was barely audible.
“Yes, it is Salome Alexandra. I have come to talk to you about the succession.” I had never dared broach the subject, so I knew my words might shock him. I did not know how forthright his physician had been, and I was certain the concubine had avoided the topic of death.
But I was his wife and his queen, and we had no time for illusions.
His eyes flicked toward the physician, then the concubine, who stood in the corner. Then his gaze returned to me.
“I must know, husband—who have you named as your successor? Who would you seat on the throne of Israel?”
His brows lowered, and his lips trembled as his eyes filled with question. I could think of only one question he would ask.
“Yes, husband,” I said as gently as I could. “You will soon join your parents in the tomb. So we must know your choice to rule over Judea.”
He stared at the ceiling as his face rippled with anguish. I knew he had thought about death—no man could be sick for so long without realizing that life was slipping away. But until that moment, apparently no one had confronted him with the inevitable truth.
I let him have the time he needed. While I waited, I wove my fingers between his, reminding him he was not alone.
Finally, his expression smoothed into resignation. His head turned and he looked at me. “You,” he said simply, his fingers tightening around mine. “In my will, I have given Judea to you.”