Salome (14 page)

“Whatever I wish?” I said breathlessly. The moment had come.

“Whatever you wish. Do you want gold, pearls, all the treasure in my storerooms?” At Antipas’s last reckless suggestion, I saw Steward Chuza half rise from his couch, wringing his hands. Antipas paid no attention. “If you wish it, I will give you…
half my kingdom.
” His eyes locked mine, and he added in a whisper, “You know what I mean.”

I did know. He meant exactly what Gundi had intended. But it wasn’t what I intended.

Antipas went on, loud enough for all to hear, “I, Herod Antipas, son of Herod the Great, swear it on my honor as Tetrarch of Galilee and Perea. If you wish it, I will give you half my kingdom.”

Now I would say, “Send me back to Rome, to the Temple of Diana.” If only I had spoken without looking around! But I heard a sound—a moan—from the direction of the stairs. I did look around.

A woman stood on the bottom step, clutching the pedestal of the lamp stand. For a moment I thought it was Herodias. But wasn’t Herodias upstairs, deep in a drugged sleep? Besides, this woman looked older.

“Daughter!”

It
was
Herodias. Only, this was the Herodias I had glimpsed during my night in the Temple of Diana—a small, weak person. It hurt me to see her like this, stripped of her beauty and charm, surrounded by enemies. Yes, Antipas had filled his grand hall with Herodias’s enemies, men who wished her ill. Most of them would be glad to see Herodias put aside by Antipas and turned out of the palace.

My mother was now hastening across the dining hall, around clusters of couches and tables, toward me. There was terror, and a desperate hope, on her face. Pity wrung my heart.

No pity, however, showed in Antipas’s stare at his wife. “I thought I made it clear that women were not to come to this banquet.”

Chuza leaned toward him. “Shall I call the guards, my lord?”

“No!” I cried out, not pleading but commanding. “Leave her alone.”

My stepfather swung his head around to regard me. His eyelids were half closed, and he spoke slowly. “You get only one wish. Choose carefully.”

Flinging herself onto the floor in front of me, Herodias clutched my ankles. She kissed my feet. “I pray you, dearest, kindest daughter, let me stay with you. Oh, protect me. I beg of you!”

My mother and I should not be enemies. It was Antipas, and all such powerful men, who turned us women against each other, like gladiators who should have been friends.

Herodias raised her head, her eyelashes sparkling with tears. From my towering height of divine strength, I was glad to offer my protection to this poor woman. I bent down and pulled her up.

“Oh, child of my heart,” whispered Herodias. “If only you will claim the courage and wisdom of our royal ancestors, you can save us both! It all depends on what you ask for.”

“What shall I ask?” I whispered back.

Squeezing my hand, Herodias told me what she wanted.

I felt a shock of horror, but then understanding sank into me. I saw through Aphrodite’s eyes, free of the human notions of right and wrong. If I forced Antipas to do what Herodias wanted, no one could touch her. He’d be casting his lot with his wife, against the Jews who wanted her put aside.

Now Herodias and I were as close as I could have wished when I was a little girl. Only, this was not the cozy closeness of my childhood. It was a closeness shaped by the sad, bleak truth: the world was against us. Our charmed circle was the circle formed by two gladiators swinging their swords.

I took a deep breath. “I wish the head of John, called the Baptizer!” My voice rang from the lavishly decorated ceiling. “As you swore on your honor, O prince.”

NINETEEN

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH

In his prison cell under the banquet hall, John heard footsteps coming down the corridor. He recognized that tread: it was the evening-shift jailer. The door was unbarred and opened a crack. “Baptizer, your disciple left a message.” The man handed over a tablet and held up his torch so that John could read it.

To Rabbi John the Baptizer from Elias his disciple,
began the note scratched in the wax surface of the tablet.
I hoped to see you in person to tell you about Rabbi Yeshua. We found him still in Nain, where we heard him preach. Rabbi, we were filled with joy. Your cousin said, Repent, the kingdom of the Lord is at hand. And afterward he healed many who were sick, blind, and tormented by demons. Then I asked him your question, if he was the One Who Is to Come. He answered, Tell John what you have seen and heard today.

John sighed deeply. “Thanks be to the Lord.”

The jailer cleared his throat. “Baptizer…your disciple had no money to pay me for giving you the message. He said you would bless me instead.”

Lifting his gaze from the tablet, John saw a strange expression on the jailer’s face. “I’m not a magician, jailer,” he said. “I could say a blessing over you, but it would mean nothing unless you repented.”

The jailer was silent for a moment. Then, keeping his eyes fixed on John’s face, he sank to his knees. “What should I do to repent, Rabbi?”

Even here, Lord! thought John. Even in the depths of the Tetrarch’s prison, the Lord’s call was heard. “Be merciful to the prisoners you guard,” he told the man. “Give them their bread and water, let them have visitors without taking bribes. And when you have lived this way for a month…”

John hesitated. At this point in instructing the penitent, he always told them to return to him to be baptized. But now he knew, with a feeling as solid as these stone walls, that he would never baptize again. “When you have lived this way for a month, go find Rabbi Yeshua of Nazareth.”

A little later, John heard footsteps coming down the corridor toward his cell. There were two pairs of feet this time, and one of them wore heavy-soled soldier’s sandals. While the jailer’s footsteps had been cautious, almost sneaky, these footsteps slapped the stone floor with thoughtless force. A man who walked this way had no qualms about his assignment, no secret desire for blessing.

John felt the presence, invisible but solid, of the prophet Elijah. And Amos, Ezekiel, Isaiah…all the prophets gone before John gathered now to lend him strength. Peace, John, they said.

A line of torchlight appeared under the cell door, and the footsteps stopped. The iron bar on the door clanked as someone fumbled with it. “Hurry up, you,” said the soldier. “They’re waiting upstairs.” There was a rasp of steel—the unsheathing of a sword.

John prayed his last prayer, a prayer of King David.
“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.”

TWENTY

TRAGEDY

The Tetrarch gave the order, and a guard left with the silver platter for the prison. The great hall was silent. Time passed. It almost seemed that I could hear the drip of the water clock all the way from the entrance hall. Antipas did not move. He looked stunned, like a wrestler thrown to the ground by a man half his size.

I was stunned, too. What had happened? Aphrodite had left me. I was no longer a goddess—I was just a young girl without a protector. I felt sick and weak. Be strong, I told myself. Remember your ancestors Lady Salome and Queen Alexandra.

Here comes the guard with the platter. On the platter, a thing with a face. Eyes and mouth open, chalky gray skin. Like a theater mask for tragedy. Do not look closely at it. Steeling myself, I held out my hands.

“Woe! Accursed day!” As Antipas cried out, I nearly dropped the heavy platter.

Seizing his gold-embroidered robe with both hands, Antipas ripped it down the front. Then he walked out of the hall. Philip followed him, then their attendants, and then the rest of the guests. Some of the men cast horrified glances at me; others stared straight ahead.

I was left standing before Antipas’s couch by myself, holding the platter. I managed not to look directly at it, but I couldn’t help feeling the weight. I gripped the handles so tightly that the edges of the silver grape leaves cut into my hands. I turned my eyes aside to the empty wine goblets on the table. I smelled blood, and I tried not to breathe very much.

A thought came into my numb mind: Herodias, it was Herodias who had asked for this. I would give it to her. I turned toward my mother.

In a firm, kind voice, as though I were six years old, she said, “Salome, set that down on the table. Here, I’ll clear a place.” She moved the goblets to one side.

Carefully, as if I were serving a choice dish to invisible guests, I stooped to set the platter down on Antipas’s table.

“Good girl.” Herodias put an arm around my shoulders. “Now come with me.” She led me across the hall. In the lamplight her face glowed.

As we climbed the stairs together, she kissed my hair, whispered in my ear. “You did so well, my dearest dear! What a brave girl.”

“Oh, Mama!” I gasped.

Near the top of the stairs I glanced up at the balcony. The audience of servants had melted away, all except Leander and Gundi. Leander stared as if I were the Medusa and he were turned to stone at the sight. Then he wrenched his gaze away, and he, too, disappeared. Gundi, leaning on the balcony railing, did not turn away, but her expression was bleak.

“Gundi,” said Herodias. “Go to my suite and fetch the pitcher and cup from my bedside table. Bring them to Salome’s room.” She guided me along the loggia.

In my room we sat on the couch until Gundi brought the pitcher. Herodias gave me sips from her own delicate glass cup. The wine was sweet with honey, covering up a bitter taste. “Now the danger is past,” murmured Herodias. “Now we can breathe freely.”

“It looked like a mask,” I choked out. “A mask from a tragedy—do you know what I mean?”

“Of course Antipas was upset,” Herodias went on, “but he’ll come around. He’ll realize that he should have taken care of it himself some time ago. He’ll convince himself that it was all his own idea.”

Gradually my distress faded, soothed away by the drug in the wine and Herodias’s murmurs. “There, there. The worst is over now.” Her voice stroked me while her hand rubbed the back of my neck.

When I was calmer, Herodias had Gundi help me out of the dancer’s costume. Leading me to my bed, Herodias tucked a warm robe around me. The last thing I heard before I sank into a stupor was, “Sleep well, my dearest pet.”

TWENTY-ONE

MURDERER

I woke up late, knowing before I was really awake that I wanted to stay asleep. Then I remembered why. My mind shied aside, the way my gaze had shied from the platter last night.

But sunlight filtered through the lattice doors. Could the worst be over, as Herodias had said? I tried to talk to Gundi as she brought water for me to wash my face and offered bread and figs. I wasn’t hungry, and her grim silence didn’t help my appetite.

Then Herodias appeared, smiling enough for the three of us. I rushed to her and put my head on her shoulder, wanting her to pet me and comfort me the way she had last night. She held me for a moment, but then she drew back, laughing a little. “Come on, no more sulking, Salome. Look what a luscious morning for us! We’re going to view the progress on the shrine to Diana.”

As soon as I was dressed, Herodias bustled me into a litter that took us to the city square. The overseer showed us around the half-built shrine. On the porch, pediments were already in place for the columns to hold up the roof. “Do you see the quality of this marble?” Herodias asked me. “I convinced Antipas to spare no expense to this shrine in your honor. And on the roof, one of the statues of Diana’s attendants is to have your face!—What’s this?”

“This” was a ragged cloak draped over one of the pediments. “A worker must have left it, lady,” said the overseer as he pulled it away. Then he gasped and tried to put it back, but it was too late.

MURDERER

said red letters on the marble.

Pressing my hand to my mouth, I shrank back. But Herodias flew into a rage, screaming and stamping her foot. The overseer bowed to her over and over, stammering promises to find the “prankster” and hand him over to the guards. I crept back into the litter, shuddering as if the day were cold.

“Salome, love. Salome, my pet.” Slipping in beside me, Herodias patted my cheek. “How you suffer! You’re so sensitive, just like me. But you have to understand, my dearest, that we had no choice.”

“The head, staring!” I was desperate to make her understand. I held up a hand in front of my face. “It’s as if it’s
right there.
”

But Herodias seemed determined not to understand. She reminded me, in a teasing tone, of the time I’d cried because I felt sorry for the roast suckling pig at a holiday dinner. Of course I’d been very little. I’d gotten used to roast pigs, hadn’t I?

Herodias rattled on about how good life would be for the two of us now that the “baleful influence,” as Magus Shazzar had put it, had been “occulted.” We’d practice for a new performance of
Demeter and Persephone
and invite all the courtiers’ wives to see it. We’d plan a shopping trip to Antioch, a stylish, lively city, “nicer than Rome.”

But the head—the eyes, staring at me! I wanted to cry out. Herodias’s cheery talk was an invisible shield, held up between her and my distress.

Herodias had the litter drop me off at the front steps of the palace, then went on to a social call on a nobleman’s wife. I roamed through the colonnades and gardens, unable to sit still. In the main garden I glimpsed Leander, reading a scroll. I paused in the gateway, wondering whether to speak to him. But before I could step in, Leander glanced up and saw me. Jumping to his feet, he bowed and hurried out the other gate with his scroll half rolled.

The midday meal came and went, although I didn’t eat it.

Now it was early afternoon. If this had been an ordinary day (if only I could return to the time of ordinary days!), I would visit Joanna.

Today I shrank from the thought of facing her, even as I longed to be with her. How could I explain what I’d done? I hadn’t wanted the death of John the Baptizer, but last night, it had seemed necessary. I seemed to have wandered into a Greek tragedy, I thought. King Oedipus hadn’t meant to kill his father and marry his mother, and yet he had committed those horrible acts.

At last I felt that I
must
see Joanna—I
must
make her understand. Pulling a shawl over my head (I felt a need to cover myself, although the day was hot), I hurried through the palace grounds to the steward’s house.

Joanna’s maid opened the door for me. She looked down at the floor as she said, “My mistress is away.”

I glanced past Zoe through the atrium to the garden, where Joanna was reclining on her couch. I had feared this, but it was more painful than I expected. “Tell her I beg her to let me see her.” As the maid did not step aside, I raised my voice. “I want to talk to her.” In my own ears, my voice sounded like that of a spoiled child.

Joanna called to her maid, “Never mind, Zoe. I will speak with her after all.”

At her tone of voice, my insides went cold. Still, I walked into the garden. Joanna gestured to a bench, but I didn’t sit down. I went straight to her couch and dropped to my knees. “Joanna! Please understand. You have to understand—I only wanted to get away from Tiberias.”

Joanna looked straight at me without speaking. There were smudges of weariness under her eyes.

I began to babble about Greek tragedies, and how frightened I was of my stepfather and mother, and what I’d intended when I danced at the banquet. I described how it felt to be a goddess, beyond the human limits of right and wrong—although of course I understood now that I wasn’t really a goddess—

Still Joanna looked at me, stone-faced.

“It was the herb Gundi made me breathe,” I pleaded. “I wasn’t thinking straight. And then my mother—my mother made me feel that we were like gladiators, fighting together for our lives.”

Joanna shook her head in disbelief. “First a goddess, then a gladiator.”

“Oh, Joanna, my mother is like an evil enchantress! But now my eyes are opened, and I’ll never be taken in by her again. It’s like what you told me about repenting. I didn’t want to look at what my mother was really like, but now I see.”

I thought that Joanna’s heart would soften if I talked of repenting, but she put her hands over her ears. “It is blasphemy for you to talk of repentance. Never mind Antipas, or Herodias, or Gundi’s herbs.
You
have murdered God’s messenger.
You
have taken away the hope of the people. You may be named after the Salome who saved the Jewish leaders, but you’re nothing like her.”

“I didn’t want to harm the preacher!” I sobbed.

“Then why did you murder him? Antipas would have done whatever you asked! You could have asked to let John go free.” Joanna closed her eyes, and her brow creased as if in pain. “Leave me.” Then she opened her eyes and said, “No, stay a moment. I’ll tell you how I spent the morning.”

The deliberate way she spoke made me shiver, but I didn’t move.

“As soon as I heard the news,” said Joanna, “I sent my litter to the prison and my maid to the market to buy spices and ointments for the burial. The litter bearers delivered the Baptizer’s body to the safe house, then returned to bring me there. I couldn’t help the other disciples anoint his body, but I watched.” She looked me in the face. “Fortunately, they’d found the head on the palace trash heap, so they could wrap the whole body together.”

I was sitting in Joanna’s garden, as I had many times. But now I seemed to be outside it, as if I was shut out even while I was there. The refreshing scented breeze, the peaceful mood, was not for me.

Joanna’s merciless voice went on. “No, I didn’t have the strength to help prepare the body, but at least I had money to pay for a tomb. Not in accursed Tiberias, of course. They’ll bury him in Capernaum.”

I couldn’t speak. Joanna ended with quiet emphasis, “I do not want you here with me.” She closed her eyes again.

I left the steward’s house, my face burning as if Joanna had slapped me. I walked slowly at first, then faster and faster, as if I could escape Joanna’s ugly picture of me. Maybe I was trying to run back to yesterday afternoon, when Joanna had still been eager to see me. If only I had dropped my reckless, selfish plan and gone to Joanna for help instead!

By the time I reached the main garden, I was almost running. I was not Joanna’s daughter; I was Herodias’s daughter. My mother
had
to comfort me now; she
had
to see how desperate I was. I dashed down the colonnade toward Herodias’s suite.

I managed to hold myself together until I stood outside the doors to Herodias’s sitting room. Her maid, Iris, opened the doors. “My lady isn’t here.”

I burst out crying, bending over as if I had cramps. Through my sobs, I heard a bright voice behind me. “What’s all this?”

It was Herodias. I flung myself at her, clutching her so that she couldn’t back away. I tried to speak, but my voice came out in a wordless wail.

Herodias gave an exasperated laugh. “What
is
all this, indeed? And where’s Gundi when we need her?” As I sobbed and hiccuped, she took me by the arms and held me away from her. “Salome. Listen. I want you to go to the spa. Have a massage and a good long soak in the warm bath. Here. Iris will take you.”

As I stumbled out the door, supported by the maid, Herodias added, “You must pull yourself together. It’s time to put the unpleasantness behind us and move forward.”

That night I lay awake thinking, I am a fool as well as a murderer. Hadn’t I just told Joanna that Herodias was an evil enchantress? Hadn’t I just declared, “I’ll never be taken in by her again”? And yet, a few minutes later I ran to her for comfort!

My mother
ought
to love me as much as the goddess Demeter loved her daughter Persephone. But Herodias did not love me like that. She wasn’t even my friend. She was never going to be my friend.

Worse, Herodias was making me into someone like herself. The night before, while I was dancing, I’d imagined I was casting a spell. I’d thought I was the goddess Aphrodite—what a twisted joke on me! I was a witless overgrown girl, blundering into murder.

I was tired, but I couldn’t escape into sleep. I called Gundi to bring a sleeping potion, but she pretended not to hear me. I could hear her muttering on her pallet beside the door, “
Ach,
woe is me! Unlucky slave of a foolish girl!”

Finally I sank into a strange half sleep. I seemed to be lying at the bottom of a well—no, a dungeon cell. The air down there was as thick and foul as water in a sewer. Far above was just enough light to outline the grating. By my own doing, I was locked away from the world of fresh air and light and everything clean and good.