Salome (13 page)

EIGHTEEN

THE SCORPION STRIKES

After Antipas left, Gundi began to speak in a hard voice to match her new expression. She had a plan, a well-thought-out plan. It must have been simmering in her mind for some time.

The moment had come, Gundi said. “Don’t you see what’s happening? Your mother’s heading for a fall. The Tetrarch’s leading up to putting her aside. Her boat is sinking. If you leap boldly, you can leave that little boat and land in the royal barge.”

What Gundi meant was that if Antipas did put Herodias aside, naturally I would have to leave the palace, too. Unless I was the new wife. Gundi had thought of a way I could ask Antipas at a moment when he couldn’t say no.

I put my hands over my ears to shut out Gundi’s voice. I didn’t want to “land in the royal barge.” I wanted to escape to Rome and a safe life in the Temple of Diana.

Back in the palace, I ordered Gundi to stay in my room while I went to Herodias’s suite. Surely my mother would be calm enough to listen to reason now. I’d explain that I only wanted to return to the Temple of Diana and serve the goddess. Herodias would have nothing to fear from Antipas’s interest in me if she helped me get back to Rome.

But when I reached Herodias’s suite, the double doors were bolted from the inside. Iris nervously informed me, without opening the doors, that Lady Herodias was resting. Unheeding, I tapped and called my mother’s name over and over.

When I had almost given up, I was startled by a scream through the closed door. “Iris! Tell that girl I know exactly what she’s up to!”

The words “that girl” chilled me—I’d never heard her talk about me like that. Still, I thought “what she’s up to” meant what Herodias had said before, that I intended to become Antipas’s new wife. I tried to explain that what I really wanted was to get back to Rome and the Temple of Diana. But her piercing voice cut through my words. “That girl, a servant of the chaste Diana? What an amusing idea.”

My heart sank. Instead of calming down, Herodias had worked herself into an insane frenzy. I had never heard her like this. “No, wait—listen—”

“It all fits together,” Herodias went on in a cold voice that frightened me more than her screams. “Oh, it’s clear as crystal now. She’s in a plot with the steward’s wife. That’s why she wouldn’t talk about her little trysts with that woman. And that’s where the gold bracelet went—to bribe the prison guards, to help the Baptizer.”

Herodias went on and on. She’d worked out all the details of my “plot,” with my every action imagined as part of it. “Well, I can plot, too,” she finished in a deadly whisper. “There are many ways to deal with an enemy.”

“No, Herodias! I would never…” My voice trailed away helplessly. Herodias was unhinged. I was afraid of her. Of course, she might be sorry later. Herodias might even cry, the way King Herod the Great had cried over the sons he’d executed by mistake.

This was what it meant to be a Herod—to trust no one. Pushing myself away from the doors, I walked slowly back to my room.

“Gundi,” I said, “that was a good idea you had.” I wouldn’t wait like a helpless calf for someone else to decide my fate. I was a Herod, so why not act like a Herod and make my own fate? Not the one that Herodias, Antipas, or even Gundi wanted.

Gundi and I went over the details of our plan. She’d already taken it upon herself to speak to the dancer and suggest a bargain: I’d borrow the dancer’s costume and her role for the banquet. She’d take the evening off with twice the pay.

As we were planning, Joanna’s maid, Zoe, appeared with a message. Joanna was feeling better than usual. She was especially eager to see me today, because she’d decided to ask me something.

Gundi made shooing motions at the other maid. “Miss Salome is very busy this afternoon.”

In fact, I was just about to return to the exercise field to meet the dancer and practice with the scarves. “Tell your mistress I’ll visit her tomorrow,” I said to Zoe. I felt a pang of regret. At the back of my mind a thought hovered briefly: After tomorrow, nothing will be the same.

But I must not lose my nerve. They say that when a gladiator is sent from the holding pens under the amphitheater into the arena, they bolt the gates behind him. The gladiator can’t choose to return to the pens to avoid the battle. He’s in the arena. If he wants to live, he has to fight. Now I knew how the gladiators felt.

By the end of my practice session with the dancer, the sun was low in the sky. I hurried back from the exercise field, for the banquet was about to begin.

The servants, all those not needed for the moment, were watching from the balcony overlooking the great dining hall. I paused to watch with them, for it was as good as going to the theater. As each splendidly dressed guest arrived, he was crowned with a wreath and announced by the master of the feast, then escorted down the length of the hall to Prince Antipas.

At Antipas’s couch the guest would bow—low or not so low, depending on his rank. The Tetrarch greeted him and presented him with a gift. Then Chuza led the guest to his place on the proper couch—near Antipas’s head table or not so near, depending again on the guest’s rank.

Uncle Philip, the guest of honor, reclined on a couch next to Antipas. I thought he looked uncomfortable in his stiff embroidered robes. He mopped sweat from his brow with a napkin.

I couldn’t hear what the two Tetrarchs were saying, but their actions were like a little mime show, the meaning clear without words. Antipas beckoned his cupbearer to pour more wine. Philip put his hand over his goblet. Antipas drained his own goblet, and the cupbearer refilled it. Philip gave his half brother a sideways glance, as though he’d endured many such evenings with Antipas.

As the servers below carried in the quails’ eggs and olives, the dancer tapped my shoulder. “We’d better go to your room, Miss Salome. It’ll take longer than you think to get you made up.”

Gundi was waiting in my bedchamber, looking satisfied. “I took a peek at her. Must have already drunk her evening wine—sleeping like a pig.” I knew Gundi meant Herodias, although she had not said “my lady.”

The dancer motioned me to sit on the bed. Setting out pots and jars of cosmetics, brushes, combs, and pins, she got to work on my face like a painter on a statue. “You’ve got large eyes with long lashes,” she said approvingly as she lined my eyelids with kohl. “The eyes must stand out, because the lower half of your face will be covered with the veil for most of the dance.”

While the dancer stroked on paints and powders, she chatted happily. She was delighted she was going home early this evening, before her children were asleep. Her little girl always asked, “Mama, will you stay home tonight? Mama, will you kiss me good night before I go to sleep?” The dancer gave a wistful laugh. “I have to tell her no, Mama has to dance for money again so that my darling will have bread to eat tomorrow.”

Meanwhile, Gundi was busy with her statuette in a corner. I couldn’t turn my head to see what she was doing, but I smelled incense. “What are you up to, Gundi?” She didn’t answer, but I heard her speak the name of Freya-Aphrodite.

The dancer painted my fingernails with a rosy stain. Opening a jar of musky perfume, she touched my wrists and neck. “This scent fills the air as you dance. It drives them mad,” she added with a wink.

Next, the dancer brought out a gilt loincloth and brassiere. “This costume is a copy from a statue of Aphrodite in Pompeii,” she said proudly as she helped me put on the scanty undergarments. “The finest workmanship.” She hung showy gilt earrings from my ears and pushed bracelets and anklets on my arms and legs.

Then she draped and pinned the scarves around me, beginning with a veil for my lower face. One last time, I practiced shedding the scarves smoothly as part of the dance. I had it perfectly—it was an easy routine, really, more like a series of poses than a dance.

But as the dancer was leaving, bowing and smiling and vowing to name her next daughter after me, I lost my nerve. “Wait! I can’t do this.” I pulled off the face veil. “I’m sorry about your little girl. I’ll pay you even more—but I can’t do this.” My knees trembled, and my stomach quivered, worse than aboard ship. Running to the slops jar, I was sick.

Behind me I heard murmurs: worried questions from the dancer, firm answers from Gundi. Then Gundi knelt beside me, holding my head. She wiped my face. “There, there. No harm done. Nothing got on the scarves.”

I still felt shaky, but relieved. Now, I thought, Gundi must understand that I couldn’t possibly go down to the banquet hall and dance in front of all those men and demand a reward from my stepfather.

Putting some dried herbs on the brazier, Gundi had me breathe in the smoke. I began to feel better—much better—almost carefree. I noticed that the dancer was no longer in the room, and I assumed she’d gone downstairs to start her dance. But she’d left her costume with me. Maybe she had another one?

The dancer had left her paints and brushes, too, because Gundi was touching up my lips again, murmuring, “There we go, good as new.”

I didn’t understand why Gundi was fastening the last veil over my face again, pulling me toward the door. I knew I wasn’t going to dance, but I went along to please her. It didn’t worry me that she was so mistaken—in fact, it was funny. “Gundi, you old silly…”

Outside my room, I felt everything around me almost as if it had become part of me: the smooth tile under my feet, the soft air flowing along the corridor, the scarves lightly brushing my arms and legs. My hips swayed as I walked. Passing a panel of polished black marble, I glimpsed a vision deep in the stone.

It was the goddess of love, with wispy garments and glittering ornaments adorning her divine beauty. Her smooth shoulders and arms gleamed through the gaps in her gauzy clothing. Her eyes were accented with kohl, her full mouth stained red. “Gundi,” I said wonderingly. “You’ve called up Aphrodite.”

“Yes, and she’s with you,” whispered Gundi. “Go.” Pulling me gently to the top of the stairs, she let go of my hand.

Down in the banquet hall, the dinner was coming to an end. Servers carried in trays of fruit and sweetmeats, while other slaves lit the lamps. I descended the stairs with deliberate steps, scarves trailing. Under the flimsy costume, I felt my body glowing like hot gold.

Antipas, in spite of all the wine he’d drunk, noticed me coming down the stairs. “Aha!” he called out. A gong was struck, and the hubbub of conversation in the hall died away. “Think you’ll enjoy this,” he announced to his guests. “Picked her out myself. Dances with real feeling.” As I’d planned, he thought I was the dancer he’d hired.

The musicians were waiting for my signal. I nodded. Drumming began, growing slowly louder as I stepped into a shaft of sunset light, and the guests turned their heads toward me. “Ahh,” I heard them breathe. Antipas watched with a pleased expression, his eyes half closed.

I lifted my arms to begin the dance, and the musicians started a slow melody on the pipes. A light drumbeat pulsed underneath.

I wove my way around the dining couches. I didn’t look directly at any of the men, but from the corner of my eye, I saw them staring at me. I let the first scarf float to the floor, and the cymbals sent a shiver of sound through the hall. I was borne along on the dance the way I used to be, dancing for Diana.

But now I serve another goddess, I thought. Aphrodite. Her power is mine. I feel it trailing out behind me, filling the hall, like the scent of my perfume.

Another scarf unwound and floated away from my body. The cymbals rang. One man lifted the scarf from the floor without taking his eyes off me and pressed the cloth to his mouth. I danced on and on, shedding the lengths of gauze one after the other, until the steps brought me before Antipas’s couch.

In a sweeping motion I pulled the veil off my face and the clasp from my hair. Sliding to the floor, I bent backward so that my body arched from my toes to my fingers, with my loosened hair brushing the tiles. With a last throb of the drum, the music ceased.

The hall was still, except for the sound of men breathing. I rose to my knees. One of the musicians had gathered up the scarves, and she now wrapped them around me. But my face was bare. “Here is my gift for your birthday, O prince,” I said.

Antipas licked his lips. “A priceless gift,” he answered in a hoarse voice.

“I await my reward.” My voice sounded shrill in the hall full of important men. Inside my head, Aphrodite seemed to laugh in delight at my boldness. Philip, on the couch next to Antipas, stared at me. At the edge of my thoughts, I wished he weren’t here to see me act like—like a Herod. But I couldn’t think about that now. I spoke again, louder. “The prince promised a generous gift.”

Around me the guests grinned and beat their goblets on the tables. “Yes! Reward the dancer!” Most of them had no idea who I was.

“By the gods, you shall have your reward.” Antipas stretched a hand across the table toward me, the sleeve of his robe brushing the sweetmeats on a silver platter. He cleared his throat, and his voice became stronger. “Whatever you wish.” Applause echoed through the hall, then died away as the guests leaned forward to hear my request.