I, Claudia

by Charity Bishop

  “You should keep it,” I answer. My heart lurches and pain sinks in. It worsens as I find hatred in his eyes.

  “I heard rumors of your marriage. You saw what he did this morning, how he defiled the temple. They come to worship, not be slaughtered.” His voice tightens and sparks shoot from his eyes. He twists his fingers around his father’s staff until it creaks.

  I feel my anguish creeping up on me, threatening to rage out of control. “Your father would want you to bury him.”

  “He served your husband; he’s loyal to a murderer.”

  Emotion chokes me. “Do it for your sister.”

  He is surprised. “She’s here with you?”

  “Yes. Go to her. Comfort her.”

  For a moment, the old Jacob stands before me, the boy that loved his family above all. He is soon gone again, and his new expression sends a chill through me. “The past means nothing to me. I have no family. I serve God and the temple. Pilate defiled our holy place. I’ll have nothing to do with anyone in his household.”

  His eyes harden. “Bury your own dead.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Libi’s expression reflects mine as she does my hair. Our silence is full of words. Her hand trembles as she finishes. “At least you’ll get to meet the infamous Herodias,” she says.

  I smile at her, my heart full of sadness. “It’s not often a man marries his niece, much less his brother’s wife. You’d think we were in Rome!”

  Pilate awaits me in the courtyard. Our trip through Jerusalem is subdued. Herod’s palace is not as central as ours is but still formidable. Three stone towers rise above us as we enter its main arches. Herod greets us, his gaze lingering on me before it flickers to Pilate. He waves a pudgy hand toward the city. “No more riots, I see.”

  Jerusalem is quieter than usual tonight. It took hours to clean the blood out of the temple. Torches flicker and snap overhead as Pilate answers calmly, “There won’t be any more riots for some time.”

  Herod smirks uncomfortably. “You’ve certainly made an impression. Come inside, and meet my wife, Herodias.”

  She approaches from the shadows, a tall, dark figure covered in gold bangles and perfume. Her tunic is more revealing than mine is and her eyes are black and sensual. I can see why Herod likes her. “So this is Lucius Pilate!” Her eyes roam him lustfully. “Claudia, we meet at last.”

  Music drifts from the banquet hall. She offers me an unwelcoming smile and invites me to accompany her. Leaving our husbands, we move among her guests. A servant hands me a goblet and I taste the wine.

  “You must find this place intolerable after Rome. The gods know I do.” Her lip curls with disgust as she stares through the window at the city lights. “At least your husband knows how to manage the locals. The lunatic in the desert calls me a harlot. Have you heard?”

  I nod.

  “What would your husband do, if that madman called you a harlot? He would arrest him and make an example of him! Pilate is no fool but Herod likes this so-called prophet.”

  “Does he have many followers?”

  A servant darts past and she grabs him by the arm. Thrusting her goblet into his chest, she says, “More wine, and don’t make me sorry I asked for it.” He scurries away, terrified. “He gains more each day. It shows poor taste to go out to the desert to listen to a demented lunatic in a loincloth, but this is Judea after all.”

  The servant returns with the chalice. His palm shakes as she takes it from him and dismisses him with a wave.

  “If he’s popular with the people, it may be too dangerous to arrest him.”

  Her glare chills the blood in my veins. “Who rules Judea? If you let one fool say whatever he wants, you will have an insurrection on your hands. Herod should deal with him by force, as your husband would.” She leans in to me and lowers her voice. “He was upset to hear of the massacre in the temple, as if he cares for these people! They hate him and always will. He mocks them every chance he gets, but still he feels obligated to defend them against Pilate. Yet, he won’t arrest one man in the wilderness.”

  I ask, “Why did you marry him?”

  “Better to be the harlot queen of Judea than a wife in Rome.” Wrapping her arm through mine, she guides me to the banquet table. Several people start to approach but stop as she ignores them. “I know why I’m here but not why you are. Most prefects leave their wives home when they travel to dangerous outposts. Pilate must be a good lover to lure you from Rome.”

  I nearly choke on a piece of fruit.

  She laughs and the enticing sound causes all the men in the room to look at us. “Herod hates Pilate but there’s no reason we can’t be friends, is there?”

  Hiding my intense dislike for her, I smile.

  Half-dressed dancers entertain us during supper. Wine flows freely and music fills the palace. Herod sits me next to him but my attention is rooted on Herodias and my husband. She touches him so often, a fingertip on his arm, a sultry smirk that by the end of the meal I want to rip her hands off.

  “How do you find Jerusalem, Claudia?”

  Reluctantly, I look at Herod. His beady eyes are full of excitement, his face flushed from too much to drink.

  “Her ancient beauty stirs my soul.”

  He motions for a servant to refill his goblet. “Is she as great as Rome?”

  “Each city is uniquely great in its own way.”

  My skin crawls as he leans nearer. Glancing at Pilate, he lowers his voice. “Jerusalem is as dangerous as Rome. There, we have politicians. Here, we have rebels. But your husband has a way of…”

  “Repressing them?”

  He snorts. “Enraging them.” Rolling away from me, he drinks his wine.

  “My king,” says Herodias and he stares at her blearily, “Pilate will rebuild the aqueducts.”

  Herod scowls. “Is that so?”

  “It’s wonderful! Jerusalem needs water!” Herodias’s eyes widen with delight. “You should help him! Let him use our architects!”

  Pilate and Herod both look less than pleased. “Yes,” says Herod with exaggerated enthusiasm, “they did such a fine job in my summer palace! You must have them. I’ll send them around tomorrow.”

  The air is thick with hatred. The guests near enough to overhear our conversation wait with baited breath. Pilate’s stony face reveals none of his thoughts as he says, “Thank you. Let’s build them together, for Rome.”

  Herodias lifts her chalice and echoes, “For Rome!”

  As we leave, I ask, “You don’t trust him, do you?”

  “I trust him to do whatever he can to sabotage me, but it’s better to have a lion under guard in the hall than lurking loose outside the gate.”

  “I half expected the lioness to devour you,” I say.

  He laughs. “They are two of a kind.”

  The streets are quiet, as is our palace. I feel an ache that Avram is not here to welcome us. Another servant is in his place. Pilate accepts the scroll given to him. “I’ll be in shortly,” he says. He disappears into his office and I into my room. I sit and remove my earrings, dropping them into the hand of a slave.

  “Find Libi and send her to me.”

  She hurries away.

  I take off my bracelets and un-strap my sandals. I let down my hair, dropping gems and ribbons into a box. Libi is never late, but the hall is silent. No footsteps approach. Concerned, I go in search of her. She is not in her room or the baths. I look in the dark kitchens but apart from a cook asleep on a cot in the corner, it is empty. Fear creeps through me as I start up the stairs in the dark. I feel my way along and see a flicker of light ahead. I stop as I hear voices.

  “I’m alone now! Everyone is gone… my brother… my father…” Libi sobs.

  My hand comes to rest against the wall.

  Quintus says, “You’re not alone. I’ll take care of you.”

  “You can’t.”

  Her breath catches in her throat.

  “I can.”

  Darkness swirls beh
ind me.

  “You know what my father would say.”

  “He’d want me to provide for you.”

  Shadows creep across the floor. “I won’t be your mistress, Quintus.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why. It’s against my beliefs.”

  Fabric rustles and footsteps fall silent.

  “I want you.”

  Her voice softens. “I know.”

  “No one will be hurt by it.”

  Silence intrudes until she whispers, “I’m sorry.”

  I fear she will turn the corner and find me, but she does not. Her step falls away upstairs. The light retreats as Quintus leaves. I emerge into the hall after he is gone and return to my room. Libi never comes to me. I undress myself and climb into bed, wakeful until Pilate returns. A servant helps him with his armor. Pilate puts out the lamp and joins me. “Your face is serious,” he remarks. He kisses my shoulder, his hand sliding along my arm. His warmth is comforting after the cold of the stairs.

  I lace his fingers through mine. “Quintus asked Libi to be his mistress.”

  “And…?”

  “She refused.”

  He relaxes. “I told him she’d say no years ago.” Pressing his lips to my neck in a final caress, he falls into the pillows.

  I turn over, rest my arms on his chest, and gaze at him. “You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

  “Isn’t it? She denies her own happiness in order to stay a servant!”

  Tracing his scars, I shrug. “Should we always just take what we want in spite of our reservations?” My eyes search his, afraid of the answer. It sends a shiver along my spine.

  “Yes.”

  Laying my head on his shoulder, I fall silent.

  Pilate’s actions cast a somber mood on the Passover. I watch people go in and out of the temple, entering with doves and lambs and leaving empty-handed. The temple fires burn late into the night. When the Passover ritual ends, many go home. Jerusalem is quiet without its travelers and Pilate is pleased since a smaller population means less riots. His attention turns to the aqueducts. Herod’s architects spend hours in his office, their voices carrying in the hall. He sends them off to do their work.

  “Tomorrow I want a look at them,” Pilate tells me. “Come along, the drive will do you good.”

  Years have passed since the initial construction and a great wall rises above our chariot. Bodies glisten with sweat as men work, clearing away the rubble and making way for new columns. Pilate moves among them, talking to and gesturing at his architects.

  “Are you pleased?” I ask when he rejoins me.

  Stepping into the chariot, he shrugs. “We’ll see.”

  Our return to Jerusalem at dusk makes us aware of a disturbance in the streets. Climbing the stairs into our palace, Pilate asks, “What’s happening?”

  “Herod arrested the prophet. There’s a small mob forming in protest.” Quintus follows us upstairs. From the upper floor, we can see across the city to Herod’s palace, lit up with torches. Shadows converge outside his gates. Pilate taps his scroll against the palm of his hand. “Should we do something, Prefect?”

  He waves in a sign of dismissal and Quintus departs. I step closer to Pilate, the wind stirring my hair. “I’m sure Herodias put him up to it. She spent half the banquet complaining about the madman in the desert.”

  Pilate turns away from the view. Our courtyard is silent, the guards in their places. The distant roar of protesters fills the night air. I lean against the balcony beside him and ask, “What did he say exactly?”

  “He calls Herod a debaucher, a drunken pretender, and his wife a whore.” Pilate’s eyes twinkle at me. “I like him already.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Herodias has satisfaction written into every line of her painted face. She grips my arm and walks me through her palace. “Did you hear of the arrest?”

  “I did, and the riot.”

  She waves her hand in the air. “Judeans riot over everything. Our guards sent them away. But he won’t be a problem anymore.”

  The women in the lower room stir as we enter. She ignores them and crosses to a table laden with fruit. The silver bangles around her wrist jangle as she hands me a goblet.

  “What do you intend to do with him?”

  “I’d love to cut his head off for the lies he tells, but Herod is too afraid of the mob.” Maliciously, she grins. “I’ll have my way in the end, though. You will see. Come meet my daughter.”

  Salome’s tunic is so revealing it is difficult not to stare. Sweeping dark eyes over me, she arches her brow. “Mother tells me you’re from Rome. Have you met the emperor?”

  “Yes, several times.”

  Herodias tucks a strand of hair behind her daughter’s ear. “Salome is my greatest accomplishment, with neither the look of her father nor his foolishness.”

  The girl returns to her friends with a seductive sway in her hips. Struggling to keep amusement off my face, I say, “She does remind me of you.”

  Smirking, Herodias asks cruelly, “Do you have children?”

  “No.”

  False pity enters her face as she guides me across the room to a chaise. “I assumed you left them in Rome.” Rather than her intended sting, I feel only dislike. She returns her attention to her daughter. “Children are the one legacy we can leave behind. Men are known by name as much as reputation, but it is not so with us. Our only hope for recognition is through our children.”

  I swirl the wine in my cup. My response is offhand. “It’s a shame you didn’t have a son, then.”

  The beautiful face contorts in anger and eases into a benevolent smile. “Oh, Salome will do well enough.”

  I endure another hour of her company and retire with relief to my litter. Guards accompany me along the narrow street, the weight barely causing my servants to hesitate as they climb the stairs. Shouting voices and quick feet bring us to a halt. I brush aside the curtain and ask, “What’s happening?”

  The servant with me says, “It looks like a crowd in the square, Mistress.”

  “Go and find out!”

  He hurries in the direction everyone is going. The nearest guard says, “We should take you home.”

  “Put me down.”

  The litter lands on the street. I step out as people hurry past. Some of them are already shouting.

  “It’s turning into a riot,” warns the centurion. His hand on his sword, he tries to stop me.

  My servant reappears. “Pilate is in the square. He wants to speak with the people.”

  Fearfully, I watch as more figures pass.

  “He’d want us to take you home,” says the centurion.

  Stepping around him, I follow the throng. Someone bumps into me and the guard shoves him against the wall. His homespun cloak falls open. I stare at the club tucked in his belt and my eyes shoot up to his face. He is one of my husband’s soldiers.

  A desperate hand grips my arm. “Come!”

  Bodies cram around me as I squeeze into the arches. Pilate stands a little above the crowd. Armed guards are with him, but I see other familiar cloaked faces in the throng. They scream at him until he holds out a hand for silence. Pacing on the platform, he says, “It occurs to me that you don’t understand Roman occupation. If you conform to our laws, we will leave you in peace. But these continuous riots grow troublesome.”

  A man shoves his way to the front of the crowd. “You dare rebuild the aqueducts with the temple funds?”

  “Your own high priest agrees with me that this will benefit Jerusalem.”

  Angry murmurs spread through the crowd. The man I now recognize as Barabbas points at him. “This is an abuse, an insult to our faith and our god. No Roman taxes on the temple! This is a tax!”

  The mob surges forward, screaming in protest. Pilate exchanges a meaningful look with Demetrius. He raises his voice over the din. “This city doesn’t seem to understand how Roman authority works. I must teach you.”

  He nods to his g
uard. Cloaks hit the ground. Panic breaks out at the sight of the centurions hidden in the mob. Screams fill the air as clubs strike them to the ground. My guard drags me away, shouting, “I can’t protect you here!”

  Strong arms shove me into my litter; they hoist me above the crowd, fighting our way to the palace. People flee with us, supporting one another, blood streaming down their faces. I meet Quintus at the top of the stairs. “What happened?” he asks, noting my trembling hands.

  “Don’t you know?” I shove past him and watch the retreat, the screams dying away into wails. Pilate’s absence gives me time to think. Eventually, I hear his voice in the corridor. The door opens and he tosses a scroll onto his desk as he approaches.

  “You heard?”

  My hands dig into the stone before me. “I saw.”

  Pilate ascends the steps to the verandah.

  “I don’t understand how you can be so kind to me, so loving and gentle, yet do so much violence to these people.”

  “I love you.” His eyes are hard and distant.

  Motioning toward the square, my voice cracks as I shout, “You didn’t have to beat them.”

  He steps closer to me. “I’m here to impose Roman rule. Everyone else failed to bring Judea into submission, but it will submit to my authority! The only way to do that is through force!”

  I follow him inside, my sandals slapping on the floor. “You wouldn’t need force if you used reasonable tactics!”

  “Think, Claudia! Why did Tiberius send me here? Why, instead of a politician, did he send me, a soldier?”

  I feel my way to a chair and sink into it.

  His voice softens. “Judea is a humiliation to Rome, the province we can’t control, our one failure. It must be conquered and who better to do it than a soldier that served Sejanus?”

  He hands me a scroll.

  I accept it with a questioning look.

  “Read it! See what comes of reasoning with Jews!”

  Shaking, I unroll it and stare in dismay. Pilate returns my horrified glance with patience. “That is a list of all the men dead because of Judean riots, on both sides. Governor Gratus did everything but let Caiaphas rule and met with contempt. They riot over taxes. They riot over the Passover. They riot over arrests, trials, and executions. Innocents die on both sides! Tiberius wants it stopped!”