I, Claudia

by Charity Bishop

  Salome claps and shouts, “Bring out another!”

  I watch men die all afternoon, flinching at each strike of the sword. It sickens no one else but Pilate is quiet, his eyes distant. The skies have mercy on the remaining gladiators and darken. Large drops of rain fall into the bloody yard. It drives us indoors where the celebrations continue. Herodias joins me at the table. “You have no taste for violence?” she asks. “I saw you look away.”

  She scorns me for it, however pleasant her smile. My hatred for her intensifies. “I’d rather celebrate life than death.”

  Her eyes darken at the insult. “Then you shouldn’t have married Pilate.”

  My face flushes as she moves away. Pilate puts his arms around me. Softly, he says, “Don’t let them see what you feel. Hide it from them.” He strokes my arm and kisses my neck. The smug look on Herodias’ face turns into a scowl. Moving only slightly, he picks up a goblet.

  “I want to go home,” I whisper.

  Pilate leans against the table. “I sent a messenger to Caesarea in secret this morning. He will return with urgent tidings that draw us away tomorrow. Unfortunately, we’ll miss the rest of the week’s festivities.”

  I thank him with my eyes. My heart lightens at the thought of one last banquet. On the other side of the usual debauchery, drunkenness, and bad behavior is the road home. I sit and watch them gorge themselves on food, drink wine until they stammer, laugh until their sides ache. Herod is in high spirits, his goblet never empty, for his wife refills it every chance she gets.

  Darkness gathers in the corners of the room and the slaves light the lamps. It casts eerie shadows around us. I recline against Pilate, his fingers caressing my arm.

  Herodias silences the musicians. “I want to speak to our guests! Citizens of Rome and Judea, we gather to honor Herod on the day of his birth!” Knuckles rap on the tables in appreciation, and wine sloshes on the floor. Herod waves it off, but his jowls redden with pleasure. “You’ve given us many fine gifts,” she continues. “Horses… chariots… gold cups and adornments… but I have one last gift to give my lord and husband.”

  She trails her hand across his large front. “In honor of Herod, I present… my daughter!”

  Eager faces turn to Salome as she gets up off her lounge. She steps up onto the table and kicks the plates off it. Fruit bounces across the floor and rolls out of sight. Open mouths stare at her as she strips off her Judean tunic to reveal a thin Roman gown leaving little to the imagination. Movement starts in her hips and wriggles upward, a lusty sway that sets my face on fire. Her body moves rhythmically to the music, every gesture intended to seduce. I want to look away and cannot, nor can anyone else. The hand stroking my arm falters as Pilate watches her dance. She reminds me of a cobra glistening in the lamplight, swaying with her hips in constant motion. Chalices tip forward and wine drizzles onto the floor in a crimson stream, all eyes fixed on her. Even the women are fascinated, some with hatred.

  I look at Herodias and her smirk turns my blood cold.

  With a final thrust, Salome collapses into a bow. Men explode with excitement, pounding on the tables and cheering. Herod stumbles to his feet, his bulging face alight with wine-induced fervor. “Come to me!” he cries. Pudgy hands fall on her bare shoulders and leering eyes devour her with open lust. “Whatever you ask will be given! Do you want half my kingdom? It’s yours! Name it!”

  Shock fills me. Pilate meets my gaze and lifts his brow.

  False modesty forces her to lower her gaze. “You’re too generous, sire. I know not what to ask.”

  “There must be something you want,” Herod insists.

  She glances at her mother. “Can it be anything?”

  My breath catches in my throat.

  “Yes!”

  Lifting her chin, her dark eyes glittering dangerously, she says, “I want the head of the prophet.”

  Gasps fill the room. Even Pilate is surprised.

  Herod’s mirth fades. “It’s not an easy gift,” he says.

  She crosses her arms and pouts. “It’s what I want, and a king must not go back on his word.”

  “A dance isn’t worth the rebellion of a nation.”

  Herodias grips his arm, hissing, “You promised her.”

  I turn to Pilate. “Stop him.”

  Concern flickers through his face and melts into a half smile. “If Herod wants to tie a rope around a branch and fasten one end to his neck, who am I to object?”

  The guests await a response. Herod looks from their expectation to the scowl on his wife’s face. Salome puts out her lower lip in a pout. “You promised,” she says.

  Looking to his guard, Herod nods. “Do it.”

  “I want to watch!” Unease stirs among us. Salome turns to the guard. “Bring him into the courtyard for his execution and carry his head in to me on this silver platter.” Dumping a mass of fruit onto the floor, she hands it to him. The man looks wordlessly at his king, who nods. Salome delightedly skips to the verandah.

  I press against the wall, feeling sick. Pilate’s hand is at my spine, stroking. They drag John out in chains and throw him to the ground. Torchlight reveals his face as he lifts it toward us on the balcony, shifting to his knees. “So the whore will have my head,” he says.

  Herodias laughs bitterly and drinks.

  “You may silence my voice, but you won’t silence his! It comes, like a storm from the east!”

  Fascinated, the crowd stares at him. The guard unsheathes his sword and looks to Herod. “Do it,” he says.

  I hear the swish and the double thud. Salome’s malicious laughter rings in my ears. Pilate guides me inside, away from the gruesome sight. Soon enough the platter is brought in and presented to her. Salome grips John by the hair and lifts his head, dripping blood across the floor as she carries it to her mother.

  “My gift to you, Mother,” she says.

  Turning my face away, I feel Pilate’s hand tighten on my arm. It sets a dark tone for the rest of the evening. Even Herod retires earlier than usual. The guests retreat to their rooms before dawn for the first time since we arrived. Silence lingers in the palace, burning my ears as I undress.

  Pilate watches me from the bed, my hands shaking. “You’re angry with me again.”

  “You let it happen!”

  My bracelets bounce off the table.

  “Herodias planned it from the start. She got her stupid husband drunk enough to agree to anything and prostituted her own daughter before him. She got exactly what she wanted. I couldn’t have stopped it.”

  I throw my sandals. “You still watched.”

  “Ah, so that’s what upsets you. It’s not the injustice but the indecency.” Pilate catches me around the waist and pulls me into bed. His fingertips trace my collarbone. “Don’t be jealous of her, Claudia. You’re all I want, all I’ve ever wanted, and all I ever will want.”

  Some of my annoyance fades and I turn my head into his chest. “What will happen now that he’s dead?”

  Concern is in his voice.

  “I don’t know.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Blood stains the courtyard. I try not to look on my way past, Herodias’ arm through mine as she walks me to my litter. Her voice scrapes at my ears. “I’m sorry you must go so soon, as I have much planned for the rest of the week!”

  Our much-appreciated messenger from Caesarea stands beside Pilate’s horse and avoids my gaze. Contempt enters my voice. “You know the Jews, we leave for a few days and there are riots.”

  She indicates the bloodstain. “We entertained you, though!”

  Disgusted, I open my mouth. Pilate steps between us and takes her hand. “Thank you for your hospitality, Herodias. We won’t soon forget our visit, will we, my love?” He glares at me.

  I put on a fake smile. “No, we will never forget it.”

  She returns to her husband on the stairs. Pilate mounts his horse and I settle in my litter. The servants hoist me into the air as our guard fall in around us. Herod
cheerfully waves and takes Herodias inside. Riding beside me, Pilate says, “He’s as glad to see us go as we are, but his lack of anger over me returning his architects worries me. I’ve made arrangements for us to spend some time in Jerusalem.”

  The people largely ignore our arrival in the ancient city. There is some anger over the death of the prophet, but no riots.

  “Either they’ve learned their lesson, or it isn’t worth the trip to Herod’s palace,” Pilate remarks.

  Our arrival coincides with a Feast of the Tabernacles, which is not an oversight on Pilate’s part. Travelers enter Jerusalem and the city overflows. Other than watching the sacrificial fires from my balcony, I pay little attention until Libi comes to me, breathless. “Claudia, he’s in Jerusalem!”

  I look up from my needlework. “Who?”

  “Jesus! He teaches in the temple!” She falls to her knees and grips my hand. “I heard him speak this morning. He read from the scriptures and taught, even to correct the priests!”

  Putting aside my work, I ask, “And Caiaphas?”

  “He’s furious, my brother too! I thought they’d try to throw him out but they didn’t.”

  Curiosity stirs in me toward this man, who heals and teaches. “Do you know where he stays?”

  “Bethany. Tomorrow is the last day of the feast. He may return one last time to speak.” Footsteps pass in the hall and she glances over her shoulder. Her voice lowers. “You should see him.”

  I laugh. “I can’t enter the temple, you know that.”

  “You can enter the gentile’s court!” Her face reddens and her eyes are hesitant in seeking mine. “I want you to come with me, to speak with him if you can.” Her face is in earnest.

  I ask, “Why does it matter?”

  “If he’s the messiah, he can heal you.” Shock courses through me. Libi ducks her head, her cheeks burning.

  “I’ll consider it.” Once she is gone, my hand drifts to my womb. I stir when Pilate returns from his aqueducts but say nothing.

  Libi comes for me early the next morning. I wait in my room and draw on a veil as she peers inside. Her face brightens with joy. Silently, we leave through the side gate and cross to the temple. The court of the gentiles is crowded, for everyone is curious. Catching her breath in her throat, her hand tightens on my arm. “He comes,” she whispers.

  I search him out in the crowd. Jesus moves easily with his people, many reaching out to him in awe and others following on his heels. He approaches the steps to the inner courts and stops as Caiaphas appears. Jacob stands a short distance behind him.

  “Since you have such things to teach us,” says the high priest loudly, his voice carrying over the crowd, “we ask your opinion on a matter of grave importance.” Caiaphas looks over his shoulder and nods. His guards bring a woman forward and shove her before Jesus. She nearly falls, clutching her half-torn garments. Hair falls into her face and she stares at the ground. “We caught this woman in the act of adultery. Moses commands us to stone her, according to the Law. What say you?”

  Horror strikes me as I see the stones already in many hands. The crowd is prepared. An expectant silence fills the air. Jesus regards her without expression and kneeling, puts his hand to the dirt. Necks crane around me.

  “What’s he writing?”

  “Can you read it?”

  It looks like simple lines in the sand.

  Jacob asks, “Should we stone her or not?”

  Jesus smiles and keeps writing.

  “Answer!” shouts Caiaphas.

  Fingers dig into my arm as Libi holds her breath. Her eyes dart to her brother, full of misery.

  Glancing up at the priests, Jesus says, “If any one of you is without sin, let him cast the first stone.”

  Rage fills the face of Caiaphas. His hand tightens on his staff. He turns and sweeps into the temple. Stones fall to the ground as others slip away in shame. One angry looking man stares long and hard at the woman. He starts to step forward and his eyes fall to the dirt. Horror flickers through him. The stone drops and he turns away. The steps clear. Libi tugs on my arm and pulls me into the street. Others hurry past, not looking one another in the face.

  “What did it say?”

  Her eyes are wide, her hands trembling. “How did he know? I told no one!” Shaking her head and repressing tears, she returns to the palace.

  I enter the courtyard and find no one there, but his marks are still in the dirt. I walk around to the steps and stare at them. My pulse quickens.

  How does he know?

  Jesus wrote “Hatred.”

  It is my sin.

  My skin prickles and I glance into the temple. Then, drawing my veil closer, I run home and burst into the servants’ quarters. They scatter out of my way as I open Libi’s door and enter her room. She looks up from the bed.

  “What did you read in the sand?” Her eyes are wide, frightened. I shut the door. “Tell me!”

  “I can’t!”

  Crossing the floor, I take her shoulders in my hands. “I want to know if you read what I did.”

  Tears fill her eyes. “Please, don’t ask me.” She retreats to the far corner of the room.

  I let her. “I read ‘hatred.’ It is true! I hate Herodias for her cruelty. I hate her daughter for her sensuality. I hate Herod as a lecher. I hate Tiberius for sending us here, Jacob for abandoning you, and sometimes I even hate my husband.”

  Her shoulders shake with emotion and tears fill her eyes. “Quintus,” she whispers miserably. “It was his name! Claudia, I…” She sinks onto her bed and covers her mouth. I go to her. Once she finds her breath, she says, “I’d made up my mind to do as Quintus asks. Father’s dead and there’s no one to care. My brother abandons me. God took everything from me I love! I want happiness! He knew! He wrote it in the sand!” I put my arms around her as she sobs. “I can’t do it! Not now that he knows.”

  Holding her until she quiets, I say, “I wonder what sin Caiaphas saw written in the sand?” The laugh half catches in her throat. I wipe her tears away. “We’re both shamed today, but tomorrow we’ll visit Bethany. You are right. I do want to speak with him… but away from others.”

  “Is that wise?”

  I shrug. “Pilate rides out to see his aqueducts. No one will bother us. Quintus can escort us to Bethany.”

  Kissing her hands, I return to my room. The next morning I approach my brother with our plan. He listens with patience and says, “Madness.”

  “As my brother, you can say that, but as a tribune under my husband, you can’t criticize my decisions. Either come with us or explain to Pilate where we went.”

  He rolls his eyes.

  “You’re off duty today, wear something normal.”

  Since it is only two miles to Bethany, we walk. I dress as inconspicuously as possible. Quintus forgoes his armor but still carries his sword under his cloak. We pass many coming and going from Jerusalem. He often looks at Libi, who avoids him. She stumbles on the path and pulls her arm quickly out of his hand when he stops her fall. My heart aches.

  “Now what?” he asks when we reach the town. “Do you have any idea where he lives?”

  Women draw water from the well. I send Libi over to them and they speak for several minutes in low voices. She returns at a trot. “He sometimes stays at the home of Lazarus, off the main square, but they aren’t sure he’s there. He might have set out for Capernaum.”

  She leads us to a large house on a narrow street. I hesitate at the gate of the courtyard, suddenly unsure if this is the right thing to do. I glance at Quintus. He lifts his hands and shrugs. “I want no part of it.”

  Feeling sick, I stare at the house. I decide to go home.

  “Can I help you?” A woman holding a water jar views us suspiciously. My mouth goes dry.

  Libi steps forward. “We heard the messiah sometimes stays here.”

  She stares at me. “Did you come for healing?”

  Heat rushes into my cheeks. Libi glances at me and says, “Yes
.”

  “Come in, then. He’s not here but will return soon.” She swings open the gate and we follow her into the yard. Several children bolt past laughing, nearly sloshing her water. Bare feet pound the dirt as they run.

  “Are they yours?” I ask, feeling a pang of longing.

  She snorts. “No, but Mary likes to watch them.” We enter the house. “My brother welcomes all who seek the messiah,” she says, putting aside her jar. “I’m Martha and that’s my sister, Mary.”

  From another room, a curious face peers out at us. Mary returns to her children. Martha motions to us, “Please, sit, and I will feed you.”

  Eying a crutch covered with dust in the far corner, I sit. Martha notices and says, “It belonged to one of Mary’s children. She doesn’t need it now.”

  “Is she…?”

  Her blank expression clears. “Dead, you mean? No! You met her in the courtyard!”

  Quintus stares at her.

  Placing bread before us, Martha considers me. “What brings the wife of Pilate to see our master?”

  A shadow separates from the doorway and Mary enters. She is a lot younger than her sister is.

  “You know me?”

  My brother’s hand goes to the hilt of his sword.

  “You’re recognized in Jerusalem, as is your husband.” Martha pours us each a cup of water. “His feelings for our kind are also well known.”

  Her sister gasps, “Martha!”

  “I say nothing that isn’t true.”

  Before an argument begins, I lift my hand to silence it. “I’ve met Jesus before, twice in Jerusalem. I want only to speak with him, and will tell no one where he is.”

  “What of your centurion?”

  Under her accusing stare, Quintus opens his mouth. From the doorway, a voice says, “What of him?”

  Jesus grins and enters, startling us to our feet. My brother grasps his sword and Jesus touches him on the chest. Amusement fills his voice. “Put your sword away, Quintus. No harm will come to any of you.” He steps into the kitchen. Quintus’ mouth hangs open. Jesus looks to Libi and she reddens, hardly daring to meet his eye. “There’s no need for shame, my child,” he says. “You have chosen obedience.”