The Queen's Handmaid

by Tracy Higley

  Lydia leaned against the cold stone, suddenly tired and chilled. “You said it was something of my past. And my future.”

  “Yes. Hmm, I suppose it is your family. Your true family.”

  She bit her lip against the strange fear his words brought and tasted the sea and the salt in the air.

  “Lydia, you must hear me carefully.” He held her forearms in his own cold grasp. “We may not have much time. I have reason to think that secrets I have kept for too long are coming to light. Secrets I should have told you years ago, before there was such danger.”

  Lydia’s heart stuttered, but she did not pull away from his grasp. “Samuel, you are frightening me.”

  “Yes, it is right to be frightened, to be careful. But you must listen.” He stared into her eyes, as though waiting.

  She nodded, returned the intensity of his gaze.

  “I have taught you and trained you in the ways of the Law and the Prophets for several years now, as I have many others in my lifetime. But you are the first one I trust, though you cannot seem to trust others yourself. But perhaps it was meant to be this way, that it would be you . . .” His look had drifted, his words fading as if he spoke only to himself.

  Lydia squeezed his arms.

  “And anyway,” he resumed as if he had not lost his place, “a woman would be far less suspected.”

  “Suspected? Of what? Please, Samuel, you are making no sense!”

  Footsteps echoed along the harbor wall, and Samuel sucked in a breath and pulled her into a huddle against the wall. A dockworker, late to his night duties, strolled past and nodded a greeting.

  Samuel’s grasp around her shoulders relaxed only a notch. “I have no children, Lydia. You know this. And I should have. It was my duty and yet Abigail, she never conceived, and I gave up questioning God. And perhaps I gave up even the belief that it mattered if there was a son to inherit my calling and my duties, may HaShem forgive me.”

  His words were coming in a rush now, and though she understood little, she would not stop him.

  “When Abigail first sought you out, began to teach you her skill with the wheel, I thought she had only found the daughter we did not have, to pass on her potter’s art. But these last few years, I believed you could also be the son—” He shook his head violently, as if to dislodge unwanted memories.

  “Twelve generations, Lydia. For twelve generations, from father to son the charge has been passed down, a sacred trust and duty not to be forgotten. And for much of that time, all was well. But then, when they were lost and my grandfather came to Alexandria as he was instructed, we lost touch with the others. And it all became like some nursery tale, the stuff of legend. Until tonight.” At this, he shuddered, and his eyes took on that hunted look once more.

  She stroked his arms, as though to warm him. “Samuel, you must give me more details. I am not—”

  “You are the one, Lydia.” His voice quivered. “After all this time and among all those scattered to search, you must be the one to return them.”

  “Lydia!”

  The sharp voice rang across the harbor wall, and both Lydia and Samuel startled and drew back.

  “Lydia, you are wanted in the palace!” One of Cleopatra’s guards leaned over the wall. How had he thought to search for her out here?

  Once again she would be pulled from Samuel before she made sense of his cryptic words. She bent her neck to meet the guard’s call. “What does she need? Is it Caesarion? Is he still afraid?”

  The guard straightened and turned away, but not before she heard his answer.

  “Not the queen. It is Herod who summons you.”

  “What do you know of Judea, little Lydia?”

  The governor sprawled upon a green-cushioned lounge in the opulent chamber Cleopatra had assigned. On either side of the couch, narrow windows taller than a man afforded a view of the marble city and the lofty lighthouse, and the gold silks that hung at the windows rippled in the night breeze like the skirts of a palace dancer. All of it—the glittering gold-painted frescoes and the colorful glazed pottery—was familiar since Lydia herself had been tasked with crafting the room into a beauty the governor would appreciate. But tonight the chamber was cold, too cold, and only a small brazier had been lit.

  Lydia stood a few steps inside the door, hands fisted at her sides and heart racing. “I know a bit of Judean history, my lord. My . . . my friend Samuel, he is a Jew, though he has lived in Alexandria all his life and his family came from Susa.” She did not add that even after three hundred years of foreign rule by Seleucids, Greeks, and now Parthians, Samuel still called his homeland Persia. “But he has taught me of the Jewish holy books and the Jewish God and—” She bit back her rambling at the impatient wave of Herod’s hand.

  “Religion, bah. I am talking about leadership. Politics.”

  She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “Samuel has taught me of King David, of his royal line.” No, this was the wrong thing to say to an Idumean, not of Jewish birth, who had been chosen to rule.

  Herod swung his legs over the side of the couch and leaned his forearms on his knees. A nearby servant girl started forward as if to help him to his feet, though why a man not yet thirty-five needed assistance to stand, Lydia could not see. Herod ignored the girl and remained seated, eyes on Lydia.

  “And what of my grandfather, Antipater, king of the Jews? Did your Samuel teach you of him?”

  “No. I am sorry.” Lydia flexed her tight fingers, grown numb in the cold room and under scrutiny.

  “All that brutal business with the Maccabees years ago?”

  At the familiar reference, she nodded. Scraps of knowledge from Samuel there.

  “Yes, well, the Maccabees freed Judea from the Seleucids and set up their Hasmonean dynasty. The Jews took over my Idumea and forced the Idumeans to convert, and nothing has been simple for my family since, though we have learned to make Rome our friend. Only a few years ago, Cleopatra’s dead lover, Julius Caesar, made my father chief procurator of Judea. Father gave my brother the prefecture of Jerusalem and myself the governorship of Galilee. Ever been to Galilee, Lydia?”

  Why was he asking her these questions? Her stomach roiled with the memory of Andromeda. Did Cleopatra lurk somewhere in the shadows of the room, listening for Lydia to misspeak? She shook her head. “I have never left Alexandria.”

  Herod got to his feet, unassisted despite the attendant’s lurch forward, and ambled to the window. He slid the silk aside with one finger and leaned against the open edge, his gaze lifting to the street of grand marble temples and, farther down, the Museum and the Library.

  “Galilee is a region of dusty rocks and dustier people. A people with more sheep than wits.”

  “Is your father not dead? Why retain the governorship of a region you seem to despise?”

  Herod turned slowly, a smile creeping across his thick features.

  Lydia studied the woven carpet beneath her feet. She had said too much.

  “You see, that is why I have called you here. I saw it in you, down there in the courtyard. Bold enough to challenge Cleopatra. And now I see a quick mind—one familiar with the Jews.”

  “My apologies, my lord. I spoke—”

  “No, no.” Herod waved a hand and strolled toward her, his charming smile still fixed. “So you know a bit about politics after all. My father was assassinated three years ago. And that Jewish fox Antigonus was made High Priest by the interfering Parthians—yes, it is all quite a mess.”

  He was in front of her now and lifted a stray hair away from her face.

  She recoiled at the touch.

  “But you know what I want, I imagine. Don’t you, Lydia?” His voice was low, conspiratorial.

  Lydia pulled back farther. Her legs trembled under her, and she fought to keep her voice solid. “I should think you want to be king.”

  He leaned in, his lips at her ear, his voice a whisper. “Exactly.”

  With that he spun and returned to the couch, drop
ping to the position of ease where she had found him upon entering.

  “I am on my way to Rome to gain Antony’s support. And his ally Octavian, I should hope. When I return to Judea it will be in war against Antigonus. And when I have taken Judea as my own, I will also take the High Priest’s daughter as my own. Do you know of my betrothed, Lydia?”

  She shook her head. Samuel’s teaching only extended so far.

  “Mariamme is the granddaughter of Israel’s High Priest and a Hasmonean—a direct descendant of those popular Maccabees and both branches of Hasmoneans. When we marry, it will unite my kingship with the royal and priestly blood, and the Jews will have all they could hope for—a king who has become part of their precious noble families, who will rule them with all the intelligence gained from a Greek upbringing in a cosmopolitan world.” He patted the cushion at his side. “Come, sit. Tell me how old you are.”

  She paused only long enough to take a deep breath, then crossed the room to sit on the edge of his couch. “I am eighteen.”

  “Yes, I guessed it—the same age as my Mariamme. We have been betrothed two years.”

  And they were not yet married? But perhaps he was waiting until he had been made king.

  Herod ran a finger along the fabric across her upper arm. “You will be good for her, I believe.”

  “My lord?”

  “For Mariamme. She has your beauty, but she does not have your strength, your confidence. She needs someone to encourage her in that regard. A lady to wait upon her, one who has seen what it looks like for a woman to be a queen.”

  A coldness stole over Lydia’s limbs, climbed down into her belly. She met Herod’s gaze for the first time since seating herself beside him. The mustard-yellow tunic gave his skin a sickly pallor, despite his famed charm. “You want me to be lady’s maid to your wife?”

  He smiled and shrugged one shoulder. “Why not?”

  As if to punctuate the strange response, the door flung open.

  Herod’s two guards dove forward, short swords drawn, then fell back at the figure in the doorway.

  Cleopatra.

  Her gaze traveled the room, took in the two on the couch as though it were not strange to see Lydia with the Idumean governor, and passed to the open window. “You shall catch a fever, Herod, if you do not light more fires. Shall I send for tapestries to block the night air?”

  Herod smiled. “You forget I am from the desert, my queen. Your moist sea air is like a balmy breeze.”

  “And my son’s nursemaid? Is she also a fresh breeze?”

  He laughed, the low laugh of one engaged in a match of manipulation, and got to his feet.

  The couch shifted without his weight, and Lydia put out a hand to steady herself.

  “She is indeed. We were just discussing the good she could do in Judea.”

  “Judea!” Cleopatra’s hard glare shot to Lydia.

  Herod folded his arms and inclined his head to study Cleopatra. “Yes, I should think at his age, you would be eager to pass the young Caesarion from his nurse to a tutor. Since he is coregent of Egypt, that is.” He swept a hand toward Lydia. “And I could make much better use of her in Judea, as lady’s maid to my betrothed wife.”

  Cleopatra advanced on Lydia, her hand raised. “Why, you scheming little—”

  Herod took two quick steps and caught her wrist. “Careful, my lady. I should hate to report to Antony that his latest lover seems never in control of her temper. Not such a good quality for a ruler, would you say?”

  Lydia’s breath shallowed but she did not speak. How could it be that she was being defended by Herod? What strange turn of the stars had positioned a servant girl of little worth between two powerful rulers?

  Cleopatra dropped her hand, but her eyes spit fire at Lydia. “Very well. She is nothing to me. Easily replaced. As easily as that whining Andromeda.” She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. “You think you are so special, with all your talent for beauty and art. But you are nothing. Palace servants are as numerous as palace rats, and you have no more idea of where you came from than a common vermin in the cellars.”

  Lydia rose to her feet, the condemnation echoing in her ears, echoing through the hollow parts of her as if she were no more than a used-up, dry husk.

  “I have tried . . . tried to be of value to you . . . to help . . .” Her chest shook.

  “Ha! Do you think you are the only one who can sing a pretty tune or sculpt a pretty pot? There are girls lined up to take your place. So go! Go with him!”

  Everyone—first Samuel, then Herod, and now Cleopatra—seemed to wish Lydia out of Egypt. But it was the only home she’d ever known. She had sworn by her independence, by her refusal to need anyone. But how could she leave Caesarion? Samuel?

  Herod patted her head as though she were a favorite pet. “There now, it is settled. I am pleased—”

  “No.” The word bubbled up from her chest unexpectedly.

  Both rulers eyed her in surprise, as if they had already forgotten her presence or perhaps her ability to have an opinion of her own.

  “No, I have no desire to leave Alexandria.”

  Cleopatra chuckled. “You don’t seem to understand. I have no desire for you to remain.”

  The fear, the cold fear of being ripped from the cobbled-together family she had created for herself, drove the words from her mind to her lips and into the air before she could stop them. Despite Andromeda, or perhaps because of her hideous undeserved death, Lydia spoke aloud what lay hidden in her heart.

  She stepped forward, hands tight at her sides. “Who will know which of the plants in your chamber must be kept well watered and which to keep dry? Who will remember which robes and jewels you wore for each city appearance and how to arrange the striped nemes and gold uraeus so they frame your face in a way both feminine and regal? Who will help you fool your visitors into believing that it is you who knows how to spread a banquet table or furnish a room with luxury?”

  Pathetic, all of it, and yet she kept on spewing, as if she could prove her worth with such a list. “And who, my lady, will sing your boy to sleep when he wakes up screaming nightmares of his murderous mother?”

  Oh, this last—this last she should not have said. Even Herod seemed to take a step backward, to abandon her there on the field of battle.

  Lydia had proven nothing, had won nothing. Only lashed out in pain, the desperate act of a condemned woman.

  And she saw her condemnation in Cleopatra’s eyes, though the queen held her tongue. Her lips remained sealed, her jaw tight.

  Lydia was empty now, empty like that dry husk waiting to be blown away in the hot wind of Cleopatra’s wrath.

  “That will be all for tonight, Lydia. I have business to discuss with our new friend. If it should please you to give us privacy, that is.”

  The sarcasm cut as sharply as any rebuke, but it was only the dull leading edge of what was to come.

  Lydia bent her head to Herod, then to the queen, and pushed toward the door. As she passed Cleopatra, she could almost feel the cold radiating from the woman’s body.

  Lydia reached the hallway alive, which seemed no small miracle.

  Andromeda had spoken out of a naive foolishness and had her throat slit for the indiscretion. What would Cleopatra do with a servant whose condemnation had been calculated with intent?

  Lydia hurried toward the steps, her hand stealing to her throat to feel the reassuring though unsteady leaping of her pulse.

  Whatever was to come, nothing would be the same.

  Chapter 4

  Cleopatra watched with satisfaction as Lydia fled into the hall. The girl’s petite features and slight stature brought to mind a colorful butterfly. Indeed, she had been fluttering around the royal family for years now. If the girl weren’t such a favorite with Caesarion, Cleopatra would have rid the palace of her after Ptolemy’s death.

  She slammed the door on the girl’s flight, then turned in one smooth motion to smile at Herod. “I am surprised.” She cros
sed to a small table along the wall, set with a jug of wine and a platter of Alexandria’s finest cheeses. “I should not have thought you a man to waste your time on servant girls.” She tossed a coy smile over her shoulder. “Especially when there are women of more—consequence—who might claim your attention.”

  Herod was at her side in a moment and took the cup of wine she had poured for herself. “And you are indeed a woman of consequence.”

  Were his words flattery or mockery? She studied the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the long lashes. The full lips as he brought the cup to his mouth. She could not read him, and it was unnerving.

  She poured another cup and raised it to his. “To our mutual concerns.”

  Herod eyed her over his cup. He had a way of holding one’s gaze for a moment longer than appropriate, then looking away with a smile, perhaps of amusement or perhaps simply pleasure. He crossed the room to the low couch. “Have we mutual concerns?”

  “But of course.” She joined him on the couch, sliding too close. He smelled of all parts of the world: deserts sands and Eastern spices and even the flora of his hilly Galilee. His powerful blending of Eastern and Greek influences made him more like her than any man she’d been with, and the attraction was too potent. She pulled away, tried to focus on her objective. “I remember your father well.”

  He chuckled. “I should think so. Without his help, Caesar would never have had the armies of Mithridates, nor the Nabateans, to give him success here in Alexandria.”

  She sipped her wine. “Hmm, yes, well, the Nabateans are no friends to either of us now, I hear.”

  Herod’s eyes flickered in surprise. “Your sources keep you well informed. I have only just come from Malik in Petra. I offered even to leave my nephew as security against my requests for soldiers and funds, but the Parthians got to him first, and he had me dismissed as a common enemy.”

  She tsked and shook her head. “Unthinkable. Was not your mother a noblewoman in Petra?”

  Herod’s fingers tightened around his cup. “I spent the better part of my childhood there, in protection against my father’s enemies in Judea.”