by Tracy Higley
But Salome jolted forward, her face white. “Brother! Think what you are doing! This woman—and her mother—they are both determined to see you removed from power. As long as she lives, your life is in danger. Who knows but that this potion she was concocting was not actually a poison meant to kill you?”
Lydia huffed. Either Mariamme was unfaithful or she was a murderer—Salome could not have it both ways. But Herod seemed disinclined to think logically.
“She would tear this country apart, my brother. Incite the people to rise up against you. There will be riots! Riots and civil war!” Salome’s face was red with rage now. She gripped Herod’s shoulder like a vise. “She conspires with the zealotry, I have heard. Even here in your own palace there are traitors!”
Lydia’s body went cold. Would Salome condemn everyone Lydia loved in one morning?
Herod’s fatigue had fled, and his sister’s words were like a bellows to the fire of his rage. He sat forward on the throne, a look of fury thrown down on Mariamme. “Is this true? Do you work against my kingship?”
Grovel, Mariamme, Lydia begged her silently, even as her eyes filled with tears because she knew her friend and cousin and sister well enough. She would not give Herod what he wanted. Not even to save her own life.
True to her noble birth and her family name, Mariamme raised her chin and looked Herod in the eye, a calm and settled dignity in the carriage of her shoulders.
“You have no kingship, Idumean. You are a Roman puppet, just as your father was before you. Those of us who truly belong to Israel”—she gave a pointed glance to the flatterers on his left—“those of us who know that the One God has given us this land as a possession forever, we also know that your reign will end.”
Lydia clutched at her robe with one hand, the other arm wrapped about her waist. She could do nothing, say nothing, to stop this now.
“I curse you, Herod the Idumean. In the name of the One God, Righteous and True, I curse you to die a painful death, removed of your pride, shamed before this nation. May your name ring out over the ages to come as a byword for cruelty and madness.”
Herod fell back once more, his arms resting limply on the arms of the throne. He was superstitious enough to find Mariamme’s curse the most frightening thing he’d ever heard.
Good. Let him suffer.
Salome was petting his shoulder now, a soothing motion, and whispering in his ear.
Herod nodded, then waved a weak hand without lifting his arm. “Take her to the gallows.”
Lydia was panting. She must keep her head.
“No!” She shot forward, past the still-silent Alexandra. “This is not justice! Mariamme has done nothing wrong! She has been faithful—”
Another whispered word from Salome, whose gaze pierced Lydia with a frightening hatred.
Herod sighed. “The court suspects both Mariamme’s mother and the Ptolemy Lydia of conspiring against the king as well—”
At this, Alexandra jumped to her feet with a shriek. “Lies! I have known nothing of her plots, my king!”
Lydia whirled on Alexandra, shock rendering her speechless.
The guards were grabbing at Mariamme, pulling her backward.
Coming for Alexandra. Coming for her.
Alexandra tore at her hair and turned on Mariamme. “You ungrateful wretch! Foul and traitorous!” She spit at her daughter’s feet. “You have treated our benefactor Herod in the vilest ways. Your punishment is just retribution!”
A stunned and heavy silence fell upon the chamber.
Mariamme was being prodded toward the door now. She paused for a long look at her mother but said not a word. And then she set her face for the door and led the soldiers out.
Herod was shaking his head at Salome. “Enough sentences for one day.” He rose, at which each of those seated also rose, then he crossed to the narrow door at the head of the throne room on heavy feet and disappeared.
Salome paused as she passed Lydia and leaned to hiss in her ear, “You are next, Egyptian.” And then they were gone.
The room erupted at once in the chatter that followed a shocking drama.
Lydia cast a look of disgust on Alexandra, but she would not stop to berate the odious woman now.
There was no time.
Chapter 35
Jerusalem kept its gallows at the ready.
There was no telling when a public execution might be called for—to quell unrest, to rid the kingdom of agitators.
To hang a queen.
It seemed the entire palace followed in the wake of the soldiers. Lydia fought her way through the crowd that gathered citizens as it flowed through the street—citizens on their way to shops and markets who clotted the streets and alleys for a look at whatever traitor was being led to his death today.
Somewhere behind her, Simon and Jonah worked through the crowd, using their influence to keep the tenuous peace. There could easily be more bloodshed when the people realized it was their Hasmonean princess being led away. Simon had tried to hold Lydia back as well, but she left him to his important work and pushed through to her own.
Lydia shoved and jostled those ahead, taller than she. Dodged between shoulders and elbows to get a glimpse of Mariamme. She could not think of Salome’s threat to herself. Not until she saved Mariamme.
Only the back of the queen’s head, with her honey-red hair flowing loose and uncovered down her back, appeared between the heads of the crowd.
The gallows loomed, weather-blackened and ominous. A rudely constructed platform, two poles and a crosspiece like an artificial doorway that led only to Hades. A twisted rope with a single loop barely wide enough to fit over a head.
Every part of Lydia’s body felt numb and on fire at once. She stumbled forward, fighting not to retch, ears ringing with the shouts of the crowd.
Did they cry for Mariamme’s blood or for her vindication?
Would no one speak for her innocence?
Up, up the stairs.
No, it was too soon.
Mariamme’s thin frame did not waver, her spine did not bend.
Lydia pushed forward, jammed her body between those who clamored for a better look at the spectacle. A woman about her age turned a nasty eye on her and scowled with blackened teeth.
“Stop this madness!”
Her scream was lost in the din.
The sun beat down on their heads from a cloudless, pitiless sky.
They were stretching that hideous loop around her head.
HaShem, have mercy.
She barely felt her chest heaving for breath, sucking in air, choking on sobs. “Mariamme!”
The queen’s gaze met hers at last. The first flicker of emotion Lydia had seen since the throne room passed over her face.
Mariamme nodded, wordless, to Lydia. All the love of the years they had spent together passed between them in that moment. Mariamme reached her right hand out across the open space of the platform.
Lydia shoved to the front of the crowd, to the base of the gallows and reached, reached for her friend, as though the reaching could save her, could connect them in ways that would span the afterlife, outlast death.
Her eyes were blinded with hot tears and Lydia shook them away. She would keep this fragile contact, not let it go. She was still reaching across the empty air when the floor beneath Mariamme released.
Her own breath ceased with the jolt of the platform. Her chest was stone, her lungs solid, her throat sealed.
Mariamme hung from the rope, her head tilted playfully. Had Lydia not seen her stand in the nursery doorway just so, her head inclined in mock disapproval of her children’s antics?
It was all a farce. It must be.
Herod loved Mariamme. Loved her obsessively. How could he have let it come to this?
Lydia clamored up the steps onto the platform, reaching for Mariamme’s dangling legs.
The executioner pulled her back.
The drop had rendered her unconscious, but strangulation took minutes.
There was still time.
She scrabbled for her legs, would have lain across that opening and forced Mariamme’s body upward if they would let her. But the grip of soldiers was so tight, it cut off the blood to her arms, and her screams went unheeded.
They were replacing the floorboard. Cutting her down.
The guards released Lydia at last, and she fell forward in time to catch Mariamme. Her body crumpled into Lydia’s arms, the neck horribly loose and rope-scraped.
The blue sky above the gallows wavered and grew dim. Blackness pushed in from the crowd. An undulating blackness that reached out for her.
Lydia’s body gave up its refusal to breathe, and she dragged in a harsh gulp of air that slashed at her throat and chest like it had teeth. That terrible suffocation, like a drowning in the Nile, that always clutched at her chest when she got too close, when love was ripped away. She sucked in a breath, then another and another and another.
But it was not enough. The water would take her too.
The sky and ground and crowd melted together and she fell across Mariamme’s body. Sisters in life, they would be so in death.
Chapter 36
She became aware slowly. A bouncing rhythm and a beating heart.
Carried.
Her eyes fluttered open.
Simon’s stubbled jaw, set in an angry line, jutted across her vision. His arms braced beneath her back and knees. He angled her body, feet first, against the flow of the crowd.
“I can walk,” Lydia whispered, the sound jagged.
He did not acknowledge her words or even that she was conscious.
She closed her eyes and let it be.
She felt the change in atmosphere, from the street, through the palace arch. Across the fountained courtyard. Through shadowy corridors.
When he laid her on a bed, she opened her eyes, expecting her own chamber. But the room was unfamiliar.
He closed the door, poured water from a jug, and brought it to the bedside.
She struggled to sit. “Where—what is this?”
“I brought you to my bedchamber.”
She was too far spent to even feel a jolt at the inappropriateness. She sipped the water obediently, as though water could quench the sting.
Simon perched on the edge of the bed and brushed the hair from her eyes. “Salome is hunting you. You must remain here until we can get you out of the city.”
“She is dead.” The words dropped like stones from her lips.
Simon laid a warm hand on her cheek. “I know. I am so sorry.”
“He killed her.”
“Yes.”
“I did not think he ever would. Not really. He loved her.”
Simon smiled sadly. “That was not love, Lydia. You loved her.”
His words brought a fresh wave of grief, rising in her chest and spilling from her eyes. “I did love her, Simon. She was my family.”
He pulled her into an embrace, but she pushed him away. “But what purpose did it serve, my love for her? Did it save her? Did it save any of them? What use was I to any of them? Ptolemy. Samuel. Aristobulus.” The overwhelming sadness pressed in on her like a crushing weight, and she dropped her head into her hands. “Caesarion.”
Was this how it would always be? Those she was foolish enough to love would be taken from her, leave her bereft and trampled?
Simon had backed away and was pacing, hands braced against his hips. His empathy was giving way to righteous anger. “And how many will die before the battle is won? How many more will I fail to protect?”
Lydia set the cup aside and curled herself on the bed. “You could not have stopped him, Simon. It was not your fault.”
“Nor yours.”
She nodded, her tears dampening the pillow. “I know. But I see now that it is hopeless to try to love, for life is the enemy of love.”
“Not true.” Simon was at her side again, kneeling beside the bed. “Not true, Lydia. You must not let this loss erase what you have learned. You put too much of yourself into the value others place on you. When they are taken, you think there is nothing of you left. But you are more than your skills or your talent or your kindness. You have value apart from all that.”
She tried to smile. “You sound like Samuel. He always said that the One God’s love for me gave me worth, even if I was rejected and abandoned by all others.”
He took her hand in his. “I know too little of HaShem, I fear. I have spent many years angry that He has not freed His people from tyranny. But I suspect your Samuel was right. If you could see your value as the One God sees, you would find a solid foundation on which to build your life. On which to build love.”
“And you, Simon? Was it not you who told me that love and the fight could not coexist? Can’t you see that the fight will never be finished? If there is ever to be love, it must happen alongside the fight.”
His face was so close to hers, but he looked away. “I—the last time—my distraction led only to pain—”
She nodded. There was no need to repeat the pain that the failure to keep her heart closed had brought.
Simon took several deep breaths, then seemed to come to a decision. He squeezed her fingers. “I am taking you from here. I do not understand Salome’s hatred, but she has ordered guards to seize you on sight, to bring you for trial and certain execution.”
“It appears I have become completely worthless, then.”
“As a political tool, perhaps, and that is a blessing. But as a woman—” His words caught in his throat. “I know I have no right to ask you to trust my protection—”
“I would trust no one more than you, Simon.”
He brought her hand to his lips. “Thank you for that.”
“But I cannot leave Jerusalem.”
He exhaled. “I will not argue with you now. But at least we are leaving the palace. And we are not coming back.”
She pushed herself to sitting, swung her legs over the side of the bed. “What about your position here? You have worked long and hard to gain favor so you could give information to those who would—”
“My work here is finished.”
She shook her head. “You have done nothing to bring Herod’s wrath on you, Simon. You can still fight—”
“Lydia.” His eyes were on hers, the barriers of status and position forgotten. “The only fight I care about now is keeping you safe.”
That he would find her worth this sacrifice, the giving up of everything he had struggled to gain, was like a healing ointment applied to her raw heart.
“And I will keep you safe, Lydia. Not only from Salome, but from gossip. Wherever we go, nothing of impropriety shall reach the ears of Rome. If Marcus Agrippa will still have you—”
“There is no Agrippa, Simon.” She touched his cheek with her fingertips. “There is only you.”
He clutched at her hand, still against his face, and closed his eyes. “I would take you out of this city, out of this country, even, if it would keep you safe.”
She smiled, the cold grief of Mariamme’s death thawing in the warmth of Simon’s words, but also in the fire of the battle that she still needed to wage, one that Simon knew nothing of. “There is fighting still to be done, Simon.” She breathed in courage. “Stay here. I have something to show you.”
He shook his head. “There is no time. We must leave at once while the palace is still in chaos.”
“I must gather my things.”
“It is not safe to be about the palace. We can purchase—”
She touched his arm. “There is something I cannot leave behind.” She wore her mother’s pendant. Only the scrolls were necessary. She started for the door, but he caught her arm and pulled her back.
His left arm went around her waist and his right hand tipped her chin. His kiss was urgent, determined.
She responded, but only for a moment. There would be time later.
“Hurry.” He whispered the word at her back as she left the room.
&nb
sp; How many hiding places had the scrolls seen in the ten years since Samuel’s death?
Lydia gathered a few clothes for their escape from the servant Tikva’s room—plain tunics and robes that did not bespeak royalty. They would not be leaving the city, only hiding, and they could get more if needed. If Simon had money, that is.
In a dark storeroom, she slid a shelf from its position, pried up a large floor tile usually pinned by one of its legs, and reached into the dark hole she had painstakingly dug into the dirt below.
Her fingers closed around its squared edges and she brought it into the light, then sat back on her heels and brushed the dust from its lid, as she had done when she pulled it from the hole in the corner of Samuel’s house.
Samuel. Would he approve of what she was about to do? Simon was not a rabbi, not a priest. But he could be trusted, just as she had trusted David with the knowledge of the scrolls years ago, though they had made a pact not to speak of them.
Simon would give up his fight for her sake. She could risk the opening of her secrets, to show him why that fight must continue.
She reached into the hole once more, pulled out the familiar sack, dingier and more ragged than it had been years ago but still serviceable. She thrust the wooden box to the bottom and piled in the few articles of clothing she had taken.
She would not even go to her own bedchamber. It was not her home. She had no home. Not yet.
A trickle of doubt slid into her thoughts. How could she leave without completing Samuel’s task for her? But she had failed to find the Chakkiym, regardless of her efforts. How would leaving the palace make any difference? Perhaps Simon would have a better plan.
She hurried back the way she had come, to Simon’s chamber on the lower level. She tapped on the door, then pushed it open.
Simon had a wooden crate set on the bed and was tossing possessions into it. He exhaled at her return and eyed the dirty sack. “This was so important?”
She held up her treasure. “Yes, this is everything. Simon, I—there is something I must tell you, show you—”
He nodded but continued his packing. “There will be time for talking soon, Lydia. I must get you out of here without delay.”