The Queen's Handmaid

by Tracy Higley

  “Sshh, close your eyes and rest, my lady.” Lydia turned to Alexandra. “What news?”

  Alexandra eyed him where he stood in the doorway, hesitated, then flicked her hand to indicate he should close the door.

  He shut it firmly behind him and crossed the room to the women, his concern still focused on Lydia.

  “No doubt this is Salome’s doing, but we have learned that Herod left instructions. If he is executed by Rome for the murder of my son, then Mariamme is to be killed as well.”

  Lydia sucked in a shaky breath and Simon shook his head. Unbelievable.

  “The man is a fiend, truly.” Alexandra’s hands were tight fists at her belly. “He is insane with jealousy over Mariamme and determined that no one but him should ever have her.”

  And did Alexandra regret giving her daughter to such a man? Had she even thought of her own part in the matter? Doubtful.

  “We must keep her safe.” Lydia smoothed damp hair from Mariamme’s brow. “Her and the baby.”

  Alexandra paced. “Already rumors circulate in the city of Herod’s death. My daughter must be removed from the palace before we know for sure.” She grasped Mariamme’s hand. “It must be immediate, before the baby is born and she cannot travel. And it must be far from here, where Herod’s spies will not see.”

  Mariamme’s eyes fluttered again. “Cyprus,” she whispered.

  Alexandra frowned.

  Mariamme gave a little nod. “Cyprus. It is close to Judea, a Roman province now. The weather is fine.”

  Her mother nodded thoughtfully. “And a short sea voyage, which is necessary at this time of year.” She patted Mariamme’s hand. “It seems our storytelling this morning has done some good. When the time is right, you will return with an heir. And perhaps Marc Antony can be persuaded to—”

  “Stop, Mother.” Mariamme struggled to pull herself upright. “I am not going to marry Marc Antony!”

  Alexandra’s brows were drawn together in fury. “If Herod is not dead now, he will be one day, my dear. You can be assured that your mother is working to see that day.”

  Mariamme’s lips parted. “Mother, what new scheme—?”

  She held up a hand. “You need have no concern for that now. We must get you safe.”

  Lydia leaned in to help her. “How are we to get her to Cyprus, under the nose of Salome who would see her dead and Joseph who has instructions to make it happen?”

  Simon stepped forward. “I will help.”

  The royal women turned to him, as though they had forgotten his presence.

  He forced out the words that must be for the best. “But you must take Lydia to Cyprus with you.”

  “What?” Lydia looked from Mariamme to Simon, a question in her eyes.

  “You have fallen under the wrath of Salome as well. And Mariamme will need you when the baby comes.”

  Lydia looked between them, as though her heart were at war with her mind.

  “Yes, yes, Lydia must come.” Mariamme was grabbing at her hand, her eyes wide with pleading. “I could not bear to leave alone.”

  Simon tightened his jaw against the overwhelming urge to take back his suggestion. To keep her here in Jerusalem. How could he let her go?

  “It must be tonight.” Alexandra was pacing again. “I will distract Joseph.”

  “Sohemus.” Mariamme spoke the name quietly, as though the captain of Herod’s guard was a subject off-limits. “Ask Sohemus to help as well. He can occupy Salome. She is often trying to gain his attention.”

  Alexandra’s disapproval was evident, but she could not disagree that the captain would help. “You two”—she pointed to Simon and Lydia—“make up some pretense about having to travel for supplies, some fabrics or paints or some such nonsense. You will leave with a wagon, and we will hide Mariamme.”

  None of them spoke the obvious. Lydia had told him of the botched escape two months ago. They must ensure that the garrulous cupbearer Mazal was not loitering about to report what he saw.

  Alexandra hurried toward the door. “I will write letters. Eudorus in Cyprus will take you in.” Her voice drifted away as she opened the door and disappeared into the corridor.

  Simon bowed to the queen in her bed. “And I will speak with Sohemus.” His glance flicked to Lydia. The pain in her eyes took his breath away. “We will meet later.”

  He left the room, his words echoing. He meant that they should meet later in the day. But would they meet again after all this was over?

  Or was he destined to once again lose the person he had foolishly allowed into his heart?

  Chapter 26

  The day passed in a haze.

  Belongings stuffed into satchels. Letters written. Crates of clothing for mother and child stowed in the back of a wagon outside the kitchen entrance.

  A messenger was dispatched on swift horseback to the coast, to carry a letter to Cyprus. Another to a village six miles south of Jerusalem, where transport would be waiting for Lydia and Mariamme. Simon would get them there, but another would take them to the port of Caesarea and onto a waiting ship.

  The journey to Cyprus would take a week. Would the baby wait that long?

  In the midst of the confusion, Lydia avoided Simon.

  To David, she whispered a few snatches. The muscles in his jaw bulged at the news of Herod’s grotesque instructions.

  “You must do something for me, David. The scrolls.”

  His back straightened. “You have found the Chakkiym?”

  “No, no, I have not. And I do not know when I will return to Jerusalem. You must keep them for me—”

  “No.”

  Her lips parted at the abrupt refusal. “You must take them to the Temple on the next Yom HaKippurim—”

  “I said no.” He folded his arms. “It would be an honor, of course, but it is one I will not take. I know what your friend Samuel told you with his dying breath in Egypt, and it is what I have seen since you came to Judea. The mighty hand of the One God is upon your life, and to shirk your duty, to discard your responsibility—it is a refusal in the face of HaShem!”

  When had he grown into such a man of conviction and strength? Working under Simon had already changed him, and she could see the influence of the zealot on David’s maturing faith.

  “David, I know you believe I am somehow special, but aren’t the scrolls the most important thing? Getting them into the hands of those who need them, of those who are even now preparing for the Messiah—this is much more important than who becomes the messenger.”

  He was shaking his head before she finished. She would not dissuade him, she could see it. She stood and paced away from him, then back again. “You leave me no choice, then, David. I must take the scrolls with me. And what if I do not return? What if I never come back to Jerusalem?”

  “You will be back. It is your destiny.”

  “Ach!” She waved a hand. “You are arguing in circles!”

  “Perhaps.” He shrugged one shoulder, seemingly amused by her frustration. “But I am right.”

  “Very well. I will take them. And someday I will return.”

  He nodded once. “How can I help?”

  By the time darkness fell, all was ready.

  In Mariamme’s chamber, Alexandra embraced her daughter stiffly, then pushed her toward the door. “Go. Go quickly. I will see to Joseph.”

  In the corridor, Mariamme whispered something to Leodes, then gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. The sweet man flushed and nodded, then retained his post as they fled.

  Lydia led the way to the lower level, Mariamme trailing. Somewhere in the upper corridors, Sohemus would be attending Salome, making certain that the king’s sister did not emerge from her chamber.

  Lydia motioned to Mariamme when they reached the courtyard. “We will go through the storerooms, not the kitchens.” She led the queen underground, through the maze of rooms that honey­combed under the kitchen complex and then up a narrow set of stairs at the back of the palace. Stairs that opened at a
back door used mainly for deliveries during the day.

  They bypassed the kitchens and any servants or slaves who might be working. Hopefully their exit had been completely unseen.

  A nondescript wagon, splintered and weathered, waited in the street outside the kitchen as arranged. Inside was everything they would need for the journey, including a wooden box in the bottom of a sack that had traveled from Alexandria to Rome, from Masada to Samaria to Jerusalem. Perhaps the scrolls would accompany her to the grave.

  The wagon’s driver was bundled in a heavy mantle and facing forward.

  With whispered apologies, Lydia helped Mariamme into the back of the wagon. Awkward and unbalanced, the queen stumbled into the bed and nearly fell. Lydia jumped into the wagon with her, helped lower her to sitting and then, with more apologies, to a prone position.

  “Only a few miles, my lady. We will stop and move you as soon as it is safe.”

  Mariamme nodded, her bloodless face pale under the cold winter moonlight. She turned on her side and curled inward on herself.

  Lydia tried to smile reassuringly, then lifted the blankets over Mariamme.

  In the street once more, she glanced with anxiety along the walls of the palace, but they were alone.

  Except for David.

  He stood outlined in the doorway of the kitchen, and she could not see his expression in the darkness. By the slant of his shoulders he was angry.

  She had been strong all day. Had to be strong. She would not falter now.

  A quick embrace and she pulled away. But David would have none of it. He clung to her, inhaling deeply.

  No, David. Do not cling. There is no use in it.

  “I will be back.” She had promised the same to Caesarion. Did he watch incoming ships in the Alexandrian harbor for her, or had he forgotten even her name? How long until David forgot?

  “Be safe, Lydia.”

  She pulled away, brittle as an overfired clay pot and just as hollow. She would crack into a thousand pieces if she did not go now. One last squeeze of his hands. A quick smile of good-bye.

  Simon still said nothing, did not turn when she climbed to her place beside him on the cold wagon seat.

  One flick of the reins and they were off. She did not look back.

  Simon was known at the city gates, and it took only a few minutes to clear the wall and roll toward the Kidron Valley. On either side, black hills rose in barren silhouette against the purpled sky. No stars shone tonight. Heavy clouds, ominous in their intent, thickened the air.

  Lydia felt every rut and crack that must have bounced against Mariamme’s body, as if she were the one lying in the wagon bed. She gritted her teeth against the indignity. After this night, if Lydia could prevent it, Mariamme would never suffer such again.

  Lydia counted off the minutes. She would force herself to wait until at least twenty had passed, and then they would rescue Mariamme and place her between them, warm and secure.

  Simon shifted in the wagon seat, his arm pressing against hers.

  Lydia moved aside, putting space between them.

  Neither spoke, for there was nothing to say.

  At the bottom of the Kidron Valley, Lydia cleared her throat against the tightness that threatened to choke any speech. “It seems safe to let her out now, yes?”

  In response, Simon pulled the horses to the right, then handed the reins to Lydia and jumped from the wagon.

  Within a few minutes, Mariamme was in the front of the wagon, sober and shivering.

  Lydia wrapped an arm around the queen and pulled her close for warmth. Mariamme’s head dropped to Lydia’s shoulder.

  As the miles rolled by, her occasional sniffling nearly broke Lydia’s heart. What new mother ever dreams of being chased from her home on the eve of her child’s birth? It was an atrocity, and a hatred for Herod grew in Lydia. A hatred that seemed to deaden her further rather than light a fire inside.

  When the lights along the top of Jerusalem’s walls extinguished in the distance behind them, Lydia took Mariamme’s chilled hand in her own and leaned forward to glance at Simon’s hard profile. “How much longer?”

  He clucked at the horses, as if she had asked him to hurry. “Bethlehem is six miles. We should reach it within the hour.”

  Lydia squeezed Mariamme’s fingers. “There is an inn there—it’s all arranged. We’ll stay the night, then in the morning leave before dawn for Caesarea.”

  The lights of Bethlehem were not to be compared with Jerusalem’s but were welcome nonetheless. They rolled toward the village, past fields dotted with sheep pens, along a street of tombs, and into the center of town, an open square surrounded by the typical clusters of workshops and stables, an empty market, and a well-lit building that promised to be the inn they sought.

  Lydia felt the pull of warm food, a fire, and a bed, but at the same time the end of this leg of their journey would mean yet another good-bye.

  And this one more painful than any she had yet experienced.

  No. No, there was no need to feel anything at all if she focused on the task, on Mariamme and what must be done.

  Simon helped Mariamme from the wagon, bracing her arms for support and taking her unbalanced weight against himself as she half stepped, half fell to the dusty ground outside the inn.

  Lydia pushed ahead and went inside. The warmth of a fire, banked at the side of the front room and glowing cheerfully, welcomed her. She shook off the chill and stamped her numb feet a few times.

  At the noise, a woman appeared from the back room, apron askew and flour-covered, with cheeks reddened from the heat and a wide smile.

  Lydia nodded once. “A special visitor from Jerusalem.” They were the words she had been given to say.

  The innkeeper’s eyes sparkled as though they shared a secret. “Of course, of course. We have your room all ready. Upstairs we go.”

  Lydia tried to smile. “Not me. I will bring her in.”

  Simon was already at the door, Mariamme on his arm.

  They stepped into the warm room, and anxiety seemed to roll from Mariamme’s shoulders. There was a crease between her eyes and she walked stiffly, her back slightly bent.

  Lydia crossed to her, braced her other arm, and between them they followed the innkeeper to the second level, where a room just as warm as the lower waited, a soft-cushioned bed in its center.

  With Mariamme settled, Lydia returned downstairs to help Simon bring in the contents of the wagon, which would be transferred to their new transportation in the early morning.

  They moved slowly, both of them. In spite of the cold and the late hour and the wearisome trip, to finish the task meant to say good-bye.

  Too soon the wagon was empty, its stores piled in the front room of the inn. Lydia placed her own belongings in the corner. She would take them upstairs when she joined Mariamme.

  When Simon was gone.

  He stood near the door and she near the fire. The innkeeper had disappeared, probably to bed herself as the hour was late.

  Lydia raised her hands to the fire’s warmth, then rubbed her palms together. Would she ever be warm again?

  She could think of nothing to say. What cool words would effect separation between them, without useless emotion complicating the good-bye?

  “We should have asked the innkeeper for something warm to fill your stomach before you leave.” She looked toward the back room. “Perhaps I can—”

  “I am not hungry.”

  She did not look at him. Could not.

  The parting from David had seemed to mirror the good-bye she had given Caesarion all those years ago, heavy and suffocating. But this—this good-bye felt more like her parting from Samuel—a ripping away that was like death.

  But would they not return, someday? If Herod lived, Mariamme would be safe from the executioner, but her hasty flight would give Herod another reason to destroy her. No, it would not be safe for Mariamme until Herod was dead and a new king, who cared nothing for Mariamme, had taken the throne. />
  Lydia braced her forehead against the mantel above the fire. What king would that be? Doris’s young son? If Mariamme gave birth to a boy, her boy would forever be seen as a threat.

  But Lydia had the Chakkiym to find. How could she remain outside Jerusalem forever?

  “You will be back.”

  Had Simon heard her thoughts?

  She did not turn but felt him cross the room to stand behind her.

  The warmth of his hand pressed against her lower back. An intimate gesture, and it should have quickened her pulse, but she felt it as if from a distance, happening to someone else.

  Simon turned her to himself, took her cold hands in his own, and lifted them to his mouth to warm them with his breath. Above their clasped hands, his dark eyes were trained on hers.

  Her breath caught in her throat and she looked away. Why did he make this more difficult? Was it not better to pretend there was nothing between them, nothing to mourn when it was gone?

  For the thousandth time, she chastised herself. Foolish girl, for letting it come to this.

  “Lydia.”

  She pulled her hands to her sides, turned back to the fire that did nothing to melt the ice in her heart.

  “I will not leave like this, Lydia.”

  “Like what? What is there to say?” The terse words had an air of annoyance she had not intended. But perhaps it was for the best.

  Simon uttered a low growl of frustration and smacked both his hands against the blackened stone wall above the fire. “Like this! This cold parting fitting only for strangers who care nothing for each other!”

  Lydia dragged in a breath, shaky but deep. “I . . . I am sorry, Simon. It is all I have.”

  “Truly?” He whirled on her, circled her waist with a strong arm, and pulled her to him.

  The heat of his chest against her own, the feel of his breath against her hair—it burned away her resolve like the sun against the morning fog. But to yield was to feel the separation, and she could not risk the wounding.

  His other arm was around her now, his lips pressed to her ear. “Lydia, there are things I must say—”

  “Ly—di—a!”