I, Claudia

by Charity Bishop

  Carrying it to the window, I let it curl up in my hand. “What will happen if you can’t control them?”

  “Rome will destroy this city and everyone in it.”

  Ancient buildings stand before us. I imagine the city in ruin and shut my eyes. Disgust wells up in my throat. “So he sends you here to be cruel so they will hate you?”

  He takes the scroll. “Not hated… feared.”

  In this, Pilate succeeds. Even Caiaphas avoids challenging him.

  Late summer, with much progress made on his aqueducts, we set out for Caesarea, Pilate riding ahead by two days with the garrison. Quintus stays in Jerusalem and Demetrius rides with me. Our pace is slow and servants walk with us.

  Before nightfall, we take refuge in a small town. The innkeeper shows me to their best room. Libi is with me, while the male servants and soldiers stay in the stables.

  A girl places a skein of wine on the table and a plate of bread, meat, and goat cheese. I stand at the window and see people hurry past. “What is happening in the street?”

  “A teacher walks among us, healing the sick.”

  My head turns sharply. “Healing the sick?”

  Shyly she comes to me and nods. Voices murmur below and a boy takes off. “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know. He’s from Galilee.”

  Dismissing her, I resume my watch out the window. Torches pass in the hands of travelers. Light streams out of doorways as people emerge. Excitement fills the air. I cover my head and go downstairs. No one notices as Libi and I join the crowd. The man I met in Jerusalem slowly makes his way forward. Hands reach out to him, asking for blessings. Gently, he touches each one and speaks softly to them.

  I have never seen a man more loved. They look at him with adoration and trust. Others press close to be near him. My hand tingles at the memory of his touch.

  “Please,” a woman says, falling to her knees, “please heal me, Messiah.” Trembling hands reach up to him and he lowers her hood. Her face is deformed; her lips twisted and knotted; her nose askew; her left eye completely white. No one can bear to look at her, except the prophet. He takes her mangled, terrible face in his hands and gazes into her good eye. He kisses her forehead. She trembles, sobs wrack her thin form and she falls into the dirt, to kiss his feet.

  “Rise,” he says.

  She takes his hand and climbs to her feet. Her face falls into the lamplight, whole and without blemish. She touches her lips in wonder and turns to him. “Thank you,” she whispers, “thank you!”

  Tears flow as others embrace her. The crowd shifts around me, following him into the street. I stare at her until she fades from sight. I saw witchcraft in Rome, but nothing like this.

  “Jesus of Galilee,” I whisper.

  Libi is still at my side, though longingly looking after him. She looks at me curiously. “What?”

  I shiver in the night air. “His name, Quintus told me.”

  The urge to follow him is strong but I resist. She trembles with yearning beside me. “Go,” I tell her.

  She sprints after them.

  I make my way to the inn. Libi returns an hour later beaming. “Claudia, he is the messiah. All this time my father told me of his arrival, and I never believed it until now.”

  Envy fills my heart that she sat with him. I have only myself to blame, my fear of rejection as the wife of Pilate, the governor of Judea, the “butcher,” as the insurgents in Jerusalem now call him.

  The others sleep but not me. I stare into the patch of moonlight over my bed, thinking of the kindness in his face, the hands that take away pain and give beauty. Yet, he loved her and looked on her in mercy even in her ugliness.

  We set out at dawn and see no sign of the messiah. Libi walks beside me with a faraway expression. It is the first time I have seen her happy since Avram’s death. It is not many miles to Caesarea but the largeness of our servant-laden caravan causes us to travel slowly and we reach it an hour before nightfall.

  I remove my head covering and hand it to the nearest servant. “Where is my husband?”

  “He’s in his office in council with his architect.”

  Pushing open the door, I enter. Pilate rises from his chair and comes to greet me. “Tell my wife what you said.”

  A nervous-looking man motions to the plans spread across the desk. “We found weakness in the aqueducts’ foundation. It appears deliberate.” His eyes dart between us fearfully and sweat gathers on his brow. “But I assure you, Prefect, none of my—”

  “Oh, it’s not your fault, Julius.” Pilate taps his hand on the map. “Fix it, but tell no one. You may go.”

  The door shuts on his expression of relief. I turn to my husband and ask, “Herod?”

  “What generosity to send all those architects. Think what might have happened, the outrage set against me, yet another reason for him to file a complaint in Rome.”

  He hands me an official scroll.

  “Do I want to read it?”

  Pilate sinks into his chair. “Herod complained, the senate is upset, and Tiberius warns me of less violence in Judea. But still control it, mind you.”

  “You’re taking this well.”

  Blue eyes dance at me. “Herod sees me as a threat but I have more powerful friends than he does. I haven’t married my niece, or divorced the daughter of a powerful man, nor have I arrested a popular prophet.”

  I stroke his shoulder. “What of his architects?”

  “I’ll send them to him with my gratitude. I don’t want to deprive him of them for long.” Pushing aside the map, he turns to me. “Did you meet the new prophet on the road?” His mocking tone gives me pause.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The man from Galilee, we came across him teaching thirty miles from Jerusalem. Let’s hope for his sake he doesn’t accuse Herod of incest like the last one.”

  I put on a false smile.

  Within a week, a messenger arrives from Herod with an invitation to attend his birthday celebrations. “He first denounces you to Rome and then flatters you with feasting and wine!” I laugh.

  Pilate reads it without interest and tosses it aside. “Well, provided he’s still alive, it may mean our chance to meet the madman after all.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I climb out of the litter and eye Herod’s Palace. Marble arches stretch above us. The breeze stirs his rich purple curtains and brings the scent of water. Pilate takes my hand as we ascend the steps. “Let’s hope this foundation is stronger than the one they planned for my aqueducts.”

  We put on a smile as Herod greets us.

  “Your home is magnificent,” I say.

  Beaming, he puffs out his considerable girth. “My architects are the best in Judea, as you well know. I’m surprised you sent them back to me so soon.” His dark eyes glitter with suspicion.

  “I didn’t want to impose,” Pilate answers.

  The king leads us through the hall. “Isn’t that what Romans do in Judea, impose?” He laughs. “I tease you, as is my right!”

  Passing an open window, I see a number of slaves unloaded from a barred cart into the courtyard. Bound and shackled, many of them scarred. My skin prickles and I hurry to catch up.

  “Herodias is unstoppable in her plans. Our guests will enjoy ten days of chariot races, gladiator games, dancing, music, acrobatics, and wine.”

  Pilate and I exchange a glance.

  “She must be pleased that you arrested the prophet.”

  Herod scowls and leans closer to confide, “I like him. He speaks his mind but she doesn’t care for it.”

  Music drifts toward us.

  “Well, he did call your marriage incestuous.” I try hard not to smile. Pilate’s eyes twinkle at me.

  “Ah…” Herod’s pudgy face flushes. “Yes… he rots in our dungeon until I can decide on his punishment.”

  “Isn’t imprisonment enough?”

  He laughs again. “Not with Herodias as my wife!” His fat fingers grip my arm and draw me cl
oser to him. I try not to breathe in his heavy scent of wine and horses. “Herodias will be pleased to see you! She complains there isn’t anyone worth talking to here, other than me.”

  Snapping for a slave, he says, “Take Lady Claudia in to my wife and send more wine in to my male guests.”

  “This way,” says the slave boy.

  I follow him up some stairs and through an ornate door into the palace baths. Half-naked women lounge around me as I make my way to Herodias. She stirs from her chair and takes my hands. “Claudia! Sit with me! Kick off your sandals!”

  Her daughter, Salome, rests in the bath at our feet. Slaves offer me grapes and I decline. Herodias sips her wine. “How went your journey?”

  “Uneventful but then we did have a legion with us.”

  She laughs. “Will you winter in Caesarea?”

  “Yes.”

  Salome ducks under the water and comes up again, smoothing her hair out of her eyes. She comes out of the bath and a servant wraps a towel around her.

  “Pity,” says Herodias, “I hoped to see more of you.”

  I look sad and remind myself to thank Pilate.

  Leaning closer, she adds under her breath, “No one likes me here. They speak endlessly of her.”

  I whisper, “Who?”

  “Herod’s first wife. She went home to her father in disgrace. I hear them plotting. Half the people in this province want his armies to wipe us out.”

  Biting into a piece of fruit, Salome drips all over the tiles, utterly at ease in her state of undress. Her arms and legs are long and shapely, for she is no longer a child. She asks, “Did you see the gladiators?”

  “I did! I’m surprised they’re permitted.”

  Herodias rolls her eyes. “Oh, the Jewish priests complained. They always do, but who cares what they think? I like the look of the big African. I intend to bet on him. He’ll be my gift to my husband, if he wins.”

  From her expression, I doubt it is his gift.

  Dark eyes look into mine, “What’s Pilate’s gift to him?”

  “A stallion, one of our finest,” I answer.

  Inviting her daughter to lie with her on the chaise, Herodias nods. “He’ll like that. He envies Roman horses. Salome is preparing a surprise for him, too, aren’t you, darling?”

  “I intend to dance for him.”

  We study one another with equal distrust. “I’m sure he’ll enjoy that.”

  “Oh, he will.”

  Self-satisfaction fills her voice and sends a chill into me. “I’m tired. I must rest before the festivities.”

  Herodias claps for a slave. “Take Lady Claudia to her room. We’ll send for you before the feast begins and tomorrow, we’ll have a full day of chariot races!”

  She drinks from her chalice and I leave them there. I can feel their eyes following me the length of the hall.

  The banquet is a rowdy, drunken affair. Herod laughs until he nearly falls off his lounge. Herodias hangs on him like a snake. Musicians play above the din. Young men crowd around Salome, competing for her attention. Fights break out more than once. Slaves dart in and out with platters of food and jars of wine, dodging the cups and fruit flying through the air. It is a relief to retreat to our room and shut out the noise. Leaning against the door, I ask, “Can’t we think up an excuse to go home tomorrow?”

  “Not unless an insurrection arises.” Pilate unhooks his breastplate. “Herodias does know how to celebrate.”

  I raise my brows. “Is that what it is? I thought it looked more like an orgy in the making.”

  “It’s the first night. We must expect a certain amount of drunkenness.” He sighs with relief as the heavy armor comes off, leaving him in a simple tunic. Something crashes in the next room and hysterical laughter rings in the hall.

  I drop his wristbands onto the table. “I’m glad it’s not one of your vices.”

  His arms wind around me. “Herod drinks enough for both of us.” Kissing my shoulder, he removes his sandals.

  Every time I start to drift away into sleep, a guest stumbles past in the hall or shouts into the courtyard. Finally, a few hours before dawn, the palace is quiet. It stays that way until nearly noon, when the bleary-eyed guests stagger out to watch the chariot races. Wine sloshes out of their cups each time the horses pass, as arms lift in cheers or protest. Herodias has a goblet in her hand, but I notice it does not contain wine. She dribbles some on the ground. “Only water,” she confides. “Someone must keep their wits about them.”

  Chariots overturn and men fall, crushed. Horses pull ahead to cross the finish line inches ahead of the other team. Coins spin in the air as gamblers win and lose. I sit with my chin on my hand, longing to go inside. Herod pounds the side of his throne and cheers. Salome leans against the rail and cheers them on. Bangles and gold jewelry hang off her, her dark-lined eyes bursting with bloodthirsty exhilaration. The men look more at her than the races, for each time she lifts her arms and cheers the horses on, her tunic slides open to reveal her curvy leg.

  At dusk, the races end and we retreat indoors. The celebration is no more subdued tonight than before and I send Pilate a withering glance. All of them are too drunk to notice when we leave early.

  Listening to them roar with laughter as we lay in bed, Pilate asks, “Do you want to meet the prophet?”

  “Can I?”

  “Herod as a drunk isn’t only amusing but useful. He consented to our seeing the prisoner tomorrow. Though,” and his lips press against my hair tenderly, “his words were somewhat less… appropriate.”

  The next morning the guards make no move to stop us from entering the prison.

  “I want to see the lunatic,” Pilate says.

  The soldier on duty leads us down winding stairs. It smells of earth and blood. The further we go, the worse it stinks of urine and vomit. I cover my mouth and try not to touch the walls.

  “Wait here,” he says gruffly.

  I look around the room of torture, noting the chains hanging from the ceiling and the sharp instruments on the rough wooden table. My stomach lurches. Pilate fingers a mace with interest and turns as the door creaks open and the soldier shoves the prisoner inside. He is wild, with fierce dark eyes under a mass of uncontrolled hair. He lands on his hands and knees, half-undressed, bruises mottling his skin. He spits blood out at our feet.

  The guard moves to yank him by the hair, but Pilate holds out his hand. “So you’re John.”

  “And you’ve come to see the prisoner, have you?” John sits on his haunches, his gaze unwavering. “Am I what you thought I’d be?”

  Dirty light shines through the only window, set high in the far wall. Pilate lifts his brows. “What do you think I expected?”

  “A madman, a lunatic… isn’t it what they call me?”

  Pacing the floor, Pilate says, “It is lunacy to insult Herod and his wife.”

  John’s lip curls in disgust and he spits out, “His whore, his niece, his brother’s wife!”

  The guard hits him hard enough to knock him down. John laughs as he sits up, wiping blood from his mouth. Pilate tilts his head as he looks at him. “But you’re not mad, are you? You know exactly what you’re doing.”

  “My purpose is to tell the truth, whether or not others like to hear it, and to prepare the way for the messiah.” His filthy hands gesture at the walls. “Herod can imprison me, beat me, take my life, but he’ll never silence my tongue!”

  Pilate narrows his gaze. “That is unless he cuts it out.”

  “If so I will write in the sand!”

  Glancing at me in amazement, Pilate says, “What is it you have to tell us, then, Prophet?”

  “That you must repent, for the messiah is at hand. He walks among men but is not one of us. He’ll fulfill the prophecies and bring change in Judea.”

  My skin tingles and I glance behind me into the hall.

  “What manner of change?” Pilate asks.

  John points at him. “You fear men, not God! Yes, I know who you are
and what you have done. You are concerned with lesser things! You want not the truth but lies! Yet if you want to live, you will listen to him! His voice will be mightier than mine; it will shake the heavens and the earth!”

  “What is the messiah’s purpose?”

  The prisoner rises and stares Pilate in the face, broad-shouldered and thin. “I’m but a voice in the wilderness, a leaf in the wind. If you want his truth, ask him.”

  Rattling his shackles, he turns to the guard. The man glances at Pilate and at his affirming nod, takes him to his cell. Pilate rests his hand on the table. “Herod may think him mad but I don’t. I find him dangerous.”

  We go up the stairs and into the sunlight. It warms me after the chill of the dungeons.

  “Is it wise to arrest him?”

  Pilate glances at the prison. “I wouldn’t have done it. Prophets in this part of the world are different from common rebels or usurpers. They are not violent so any arrest meets with disapproval. Herod is now in an impossible situation. He can’t let him go, or he looks weak, but he can’t execute him without trouble.”

  The shade of the palace is comforting in the heat. From the noise in the main hall, the rest of the guests are up. My voice reveals relief. “He’s safe, then?”

  “Knowing Herodias, no, he’s not safe.”

  Behind us, the door opens and she appears. “There you are! It is time to start the games! Come along, there’s a place for you on our platform!”

  Faces line the walls above the courtyard. Pilate sits beside me with Herod on his left. My stomach tightens as two slaves enter the area unchained. One of them is the massive African. The games begin. Salome leans against the wall and screams at them, squealing in delight whenever there is a close blow. One of the men stumbles and the crowd cheers as his opponent’s sword slices into flesh. I turn my head away. There is a sickening thud and spatter of blood as the victor slices off his rival’s head, to the cheers of the crowd. They drag away the remains, leaving the African victorious.