Salome (5 page)

In a low voice Leander answered, “The servants are whispering that Simon found too much favor with Sejanus, the Emperor’s regent. That Simon was talked about as a rival for the throne of Galilee and Perea.”

Foolish Simon? Who would imagine that he could rule an apartment block, let alone a tetrarchy? My face must have showed my surprise, because Leander said, “Exactly—Simon didn’t have the wits to rule a henhouse. But he wouldn’t be the first ruler without any qualifications. Maybe Sejanus thought he’d be easier to control than Antipas.”

I thought of something else. “But Simon is—was—the Tetrarch’s nephew. At least, his half sister’s son.”

“Yes,” said Leander in a flat tone. “I suppose Simon—and his mother, who sent him on this trip—thought his kinship would keep him safe.”

The air was clear this afternoon, but I still felt in a fog. “Maybe the servants are wrong about what happened.”

Leander started to speak, then stopped and shook his head.

One afternoon several days later, Leander remarked, “They say we’ll sight the coast of Judea tomorrow or perhaps the next day.”

So the voyage was almost over, and soon these lessons would be ended. I studied Leander’s expression to see if he seemed sorry. But he launched briskly into a comparison of different poetic styles.

After the lesson, though, while we were playing checkers, he said in a low tone, “Do you ever wonder about the question, How shall I live?” I was surprised, and before I could answer, he laughed nervously. “Forgive me; that was an idle question. Girls don’t study philosophy.”

I felt a little insulted. “I could wonder, but what good would it do me?” I snapped. “I can’t choose how to live. They’ll make me marry some disgusting old goat.” I dropped my gaze to the checkerboard.

“Miss Salome,” said Gundi without taking her eyes off her spindle, “I don’t think this is a proper conversation for a young lady to have with her stepfather’s secretary.”

“I agree,” said Leander in an odd tone of voice, “so let’s not speak of ourselves or anyone we know. Let’s consider an imaginary problem in ethics: A certain man serves an evil master. But he works for a good reason, to pay his sisters’ dowries. That is his duty to his family and his vow to his dying father.”

I listened without commenting, although it was easy enough to guess who the man was, as well as his evil master.

“The master, though evil, pays very well,” continued Leander. “If the man left this master, he couldn’t get another such position, and his sisters might be past childbearing age before he could get them married off properly. What should he do? Surely it is wrong to serve the evil master. But it would be wrong also not to follow his father’s deathbed request.”

“Why, that’s clear as water,” said Gundi with a sniff. “Family duty comes first, so the fellow should serve his master until he’s paid his sisters’ dowries. Then he can cut the evil master’s throat, which he deserves, and escape in the middle of the night.”

Leander gave her an outraged look, but I couldn’t hold back a snort of laughter. Then I said soberly, “Only the mighty ones can truly do as they wish. That’s why I wanted to serve Diana, because—” My voice caught on the last words. I remembered my dream, when I took the goddess’s hand, and my feeling of striding forward toward adventure.

Leander shook his head, leaning forward earnestly. “But might doesn’t get us justice. Think of the stories about the gods and the heroes. Yes, they’re powerful, but they’re ruled by their passions. For example, Zeus falls in love with Europa, so he turns himself into a bull and kidnaps her. He never stops to consider, Is my course of action right? Is it just? He feels a passion, and he acts on it.”

“The gods don’t have to ask themselves what is right or what is just!” Gundi put in. “They are—the gods, that’s all.”

“Yes, they can do whatever they wish.” Leander looked directly at me, although he was answering Gundi. “But is that admirable? There must be a higher standard than that, or life would be senseless.” He glanced over his shoulder as if he felt danger. But he went on, “I do not admire power unless it is used in a good way.”

Staring at him, I drew in a long breath and let it out. Leander’s words were deeply satisfying to me. For a moment we were silent, and even Gundi only made a disapproving
tsk, tsk.
The sound of the pennants snapping at the top of the mast seemed loud. Then Leander looked down at the checkerboard. “It’s your move, Miss Salome.”

That was all there was to it, but that night I lay awake, whispering to myself, “It’s your move,” and remembering the look in his beautiful eyes. He knew I’d understood what he was hinting about. What if I told Herodias and she told Antipas? If the Tetrarch could do away with his half nephew Simon, why would he hesitate to kill a Greek secretary?

For some reason, though, Leander felt he could trust me. It was as if he’d opened a window and shown me a new world—a world of goodness and truth. That glimpse seemed more precious than the gold bracelet I’d dropped to the bottom of the sea, and I hugged it to my heart.

SIX

A WARNING

The sun had set across the Jordan River, and John and his disciples sat outside a cave in the bluffs. Over the crackling of their fire, they heard a pebble rattle on the nearby path. A deer, perhaps, or a jackal? Just in case, the disciples picked up sticks of firewood.

John, weary to the bone, did not move. All morning long he had preached while throngs gathered to listen. All afternoon he had baptized people. Now he was so tired that he shivered, although it wasn’t really cold. Here in the Jordan Valley, the nights were never suddenly sharp, as they were out in the wilderness.

Elias, John’s closest disciple, had been watching him with concern. As he tossed another stick on the fire, the flames flared up. “Who goes there?” exclaimed Elias. The other disciples jumped to their feet.

The widened circle of firelight revealed a single man—a soldier, studs glinting on his leather kilt. Elias and another disciple moved between the stranger and their leader.

Holding up his empty hands, the soldier took a step closer to the fire. “Peace, Rabbi,” he said to John.

“Peace to you,” said John. He noted the man’s blue cape, the uniform of Herod Antipas’s troops. He waited for the soldier to explain why he had come alone to see the Baptizer.

“Rabbi,” said the stranger, “take my advice: leave for the wilderness while you still can. In a few days the Tetrarch will return from Rome and hear what you say about his new marriage. My officer is only waiting for his order to arrest you. It’s not safe for you in this place.”

“No,” retorted Elias, “not if
you
lead his enemies here.”

The soldier glanced at Elias, but he spoke again to John. “Rabbi, they all know where you sleep. The Romans know, and so does the High Priest, as well as us from the Tetrarch’s fortress.” He gestured in the direction of Macherus. “You should leave this place.”

John nodded, but he didn’t move. He would have been glad to go back to the wilderness, to the wide lonely spaces and the dry sounds of wind in brush and rocks. But the Lord had called him to the Jordan River, and here he would stay as long as the Lord willed it.

The soldier sighed. He turned as if to go, then turned back. In a low, shy voice he asked, “How could a soldier—what could I do to show repentance, Rabbi?”

As tired as he was, John stood up at once and put his hands on the man’s shoulders. He looked into his eyes. “Don’t use your uniform and sword to rob the people,” he said. “Antipas pays you, doesn’t he?” The man nodded. “Then live on your wages.”

One of the disciples made a skeptical snort, and John knew what he was thinking. A
soldier
not bully and rob the people? It was unheard of. But this soldier nodded again, so John went on, “When you’ve lived this way for a month, come back, and I’ll baptize you.”

“Thank you, Rabbi.” The soldier’s voice trembled. “Rabbi! Please go, before it’s too late.” When John didn’t answer, he threw up his hands. “Heaven be my witness, I warned him!” Turning again, he disappeared into the shadows.

SEVEN

CAESAREA

“Antipas should reign in that city, his own father’s city,” said Herodias. “It’s only right. When the Emperor deposed Archelaus as ruler of Judea, why didn’t he install Antipas in his place? There was no need to bring in a Roman governor.”

We were on deck, gazing toward Caesarea Maritima. This was the end of our voyage, the port city of Judea.

As the city seemed to grow behind its lighthouse, Herodias pointed out its features to me: the splendid harbor, the Temple of Roma and Augustus Caesar, the theater facing the sea. “All built by Herod the Great.”

My stepfather joined us at the railing just as Herodias was saying, “And the big marble building on the point, north of the harbor—”

“—is the Governor’s palace,” Antipas interrupted her. He added dryly, “Or I should say, the palace of my father, Herod the Great.”

Herodias gave him a sly glance from under her eyelashes. “And perhaps one day, the palace of the new king of the Jews.”

I was alarmed by the reckless way she was talking, but a smile creased the corners of Antipas’s eyes. “For the time being,” he drawled, “we’ll allow Governor Pilate to lodge there.”

I felt queasy. What did they mean? Did they think Antipas could grow mighty enough to force the Roman Empire out of Judea? Between their treason-ous hints and the choppy water outside the harbor, my stomach bobbed dangerously. I felt chilled in spite of the mild day, and I kept my arms wrapped inside my woolen cloak. Even after the ship swept under the stone lighthouse and into calm water, I still felt cold and shaken.

On the broad walkway above the docks, a group of guards and courtiers waited for the Tetrarch and his party. An earnest-looking man, balding but not old, greeted Antipas with a low bow. “Thanks be to the gods for your safe arrival, my prince.”

Antipas presented the man to Herodias and me as his steward, Chuza. My mother, putting on a queenly air, inquired graciously about his wife’s health.

“It is good of my lady to ask,” answered the steward. “Joanna is afflicted with a weakness in her limbs. She does go to the hot springs—my lord kindly lets her use the royal bathhouse—and the waters give her some relief.”

As our group proceeded up the walkway to the temple, Steward Chuza briefed the Tetrarch on the plans for our stay in Caesarea. “The Governor gives a banquet in your honor tonight, my lord. Then five days of games, beginning tomorrow. But I explained that you had pressing business in Galilee and couldn’t stay here any longer than two days.”

Antipas nodded. “Good, good. Pilate will enjoy his games more without me, and so will I. What else?”

Chuza went on with his report. There had been a recent letter from Antipas’s half brother Philip, Tetrarch of Gaulanitis, accepting Antipas’s invitation to his birthday feast. Chuza looked sideways at me as he said this, and my stepfather and Herodias exchanged glances. I was afraid I knew what that was about—using me as the glue in a family alliance.

Chuza brought up the business affairs of the tetrarchy town by town. In Capernaum, he reported, the elders of the Jewish assembly wanted money to repair their west wall, damaged by a recent earthquake. Antipas grumbled, “I’ve poured enough money into that assembly hall already, for very little gratitude. All right—as long as they carve my name into a stone in the wall. My name at eye level, not down where only the dogs could read it.”

In Magdala, Chuza went on, the tax collector was having trouble on his rounds. “Boys throwing rotten onions, sometimes stones.” Antipas agreed to send two extra soldiers to Magdala as long as the tax collector paid a surcharge for the protection. “What about the unrest in the south?”

“It’s been made worse by Governor Pilate’s blunders in Jerusalem.”

“More blunders?” asked Antipas. He explained to Herodias, “On Pilate’s first trip to Jerusalem—didn’t anyone tell him it’s our holy city?—he marched his troops through the gates holding up the regimental standards. The standards, with the Emperor’s image—blasphemy!” Antipas chuckled. “The Governor nearly had a bloodbath on his hands.”

Chuza told him the latest: the Governor had built a new aqueduct for the city, thinking the people of Jerusalem would be grateful. But since he’d used money from the Jewish Temple, they called it sacrilege. Antipas rolled his eyes.

“As for the unrest in your own realm, I believe I mentioned the Baptizer in my last letter,” Chuza continued as we climbed the wide steps to the temple. “The one who calls sinners to repent, who announces the coming of a mighty one? Recently the preacher was bold enough to criticize you by name. I didn’t take any action, sir, since I expected you back soon.”

Antipas nodded. “Good, good.”

The group stopped in front of the huge painted statues of the late Emperor Augustus and of Roma, goddess of the city of Rome. A slave held out a basin and towel for Antipas, and he washed and dried his hands. “Yes, you did well,” the Tetrarch went on to Chuza. “That John Baptizer bears watching, but I don’t want to draw more attention to him.”

The court all stood waiting for the Tetrarch to pour out libations of wine in front of the statues of Augustus and Roma and to say the ritual words of thanksgiving for a safe voyage. Antipas squinted up at the statue of the Emperor, lost in thought. “And who knows what’s meant by ‘the Mighty One’?” he mused. “It could be the Baptizer himself doesn’t understand his prophecy.”

Maybe Herodias finally realized how deeply she’d hurt me and was trying to make up by treating me like an adult. It seemed I was included in the formal dinner tonight. This would be my first real dinner party, not counting the horrible wedding banquet. Also, Herodias had told Gundi she could choose one of her fine
stolae
for me to wear tonight.

When I returned from the baths to my guest room, Gundi showed me the
stola
she’d picked. I gasped. It was one of Herodias’s best, a butter yellow silk with gold thread embroidery in the border. The cloth had been imported, at great expense, from a land far beyond the Euphrates River. “Did Herodias say I could wear that?”

Ignoring my question, Gundi draped the
stola
around the curves of my body and fastened it with a silk cord. There was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, and she chanted a little song to Freya, a northern name for Aphrodite.

“Hush that silly song!” I told her, laughing breathlessly.

While I sat on a stool, Gundi pinned up my hair and crimped the locks around my face with a curling iron. She fastened a gold-and-pearl necklace around my throat and hung gold earrings set with opals from my ears.

“Gundi, what are you doing?” I protested. “This is the jewelry Herodias was married in.”

“Yes, so suitable for a young girl,” said Gundi blandly. “Iris told me that Lady Herodias wouldn’t be wearing these tonight.” She added gold bangles for my wrists.

I didn’t have a mirror—Gundi must have decided it would be too much to sneak off with my mother’s mirror, which she’d miss right away. But the parts of myself I could see, I didn’t recognize. When I stood up, the jewelry gleamed on my arms and chest and the yellow silk slithered over my body, as rich and soft as butter.

Chuckling to herself, Gundi pushed me out the door through the colonnade joining the guest quarters to the palace. Antipas’s courtiers were already waiting there; their eyes widened as they caught sight of me. Antipas and Herodias appeared, decked out in ornate robes and glittering with jewels.

When Herodias saw me, her eyebrows shot up almost to her blond wig. Stepping toward me, she pretended to adjust a lock of my hair. “I didn’t say you could borrow the yellow silk,” she hissed. “Or those earrings.”

I shrugged, wide-eyed. “Oh, Gundi thought you did.”

Meanwhile, Antipas stared like a bull noticing a new heifer in his herd. His look seemed to strike sparks off my bare arms.

I should have been nervous, but instead, the eyes on me gave me confidence. Holding my head high, I followed my mother and stepfather as they followed Antipas’s bodyguards into the palace dining hall. Servants placed wreaths of flowers on our heads, and we took our places on couches at the Governor’s table.

After this grand beginning, though, the evening was disappointing. At our table the servers had to wait while Antipas’s taster tried each dish—that spoiled the festive effect a bit. Also, the conversation was strained since Governor Pilate seemed bent on offending my stepfather.

“I hear from my men in Jerusalem that a new preacher’s stirring up the rabble of Perea,” said the Roman governor. “My deputy keeps an eye on him when he crosses the Jordan River into Judea.”

“Do you mean John, called the Baptizer?” Antipas answered Pilate. With the point of his knife he speared one of the olives stuffed with anchovies. “I’ve been aware of his activities for some time.”

As if they were playing tug-of-war, the Governor came right back. “A pretty bold fellow, isn’t he? Now if it were me, I wouldn’t like to hear a desert preacher tell me who I could and could not marry.”

Antipas suddenly changed his tack and gazed gratefully at Governor Pilate. “Why, this John
is
overly bold. I see that now.” His voice throbbed with sincerity. “While other peoples cannot hope to equal Roman expertise in governing, we can profit much by observing your example.”

Pilate frowned, and you could see him wondering if the Tetrarch was having a joke at his expense. Antipas, smiling humbly, touched his hand to his forehead in a gesture of deference.

At this moment I happened to be lifting to my mouth a leg of grilled quail in onion sauce. Remembering the talk earlier today about Governor Pilate’s blunders in Jerusalem, I gave a nervous giggle. The Governor, his wife, and everyone else at the head table looked at me. Trying to cover up my giggle with a cough, I spattered onion sauce onto the front of the borrowed yellow silk.

Herodias rolled her eyes. She said laughingly to Procula, the Governor’s wife, “I’d thought my daughter was old enough to attend your dinner, but it seems I misjudged. Look how she’s spoiled the
stola
I let her borrow! And it isn’t pleasant for you to watch such bad table manners. I apologize for her.”

Procula murmured something polite, but I wanted to vanish. Just a short while ago, I’d been transformed into a woman. I’d seen my beauty in the eyes of everyone who looked at me. Now I was a clumsy, overgrown child again. Ducking my head, I wished I’d stayed back in my room with Gundi. Although wasn’t Gundi to blame? She’d not only sneaked Herodias’s clothes and jewelry for me, but filled my head with her nonsense about Aphrodite.

It seemed as if that embarrassing moment went on forever, but finally the servers cleared the platters of quail and offered fruit and pastries. Even better, dancers in bead-fringed costumes leaped into the hall, taking attention from me. As I relaxed a bit, I swayed to the music, remembering how sweet it was to be transported in the sacred dances at the Temple of Diana.

These entertainers were surefooted and graceful, and the swinging beads accented their movements. But they didn’t look transported any more than the slaves who’d served the dinner. By their expressions, the dancers might as well have been passing platters of baked fish.

“Huh.” To Herodias, Antipas made a scornful noise under his breath. “These are the same entertainers Pilate hired the last time I came through Caesarea. He could do better—if he knew what ‘better’ was.”

“Few men have your discerning taste in the arts, my lord,” said Herodias.

“Not Romans, anyway,” agreed Antipas as a slave refilled his wine goblet. “They like to think they invented civilization when all they really invented is good roads and good toilets.”

Herodias, trilling her musical laugh, pressed Antipas’s arm. I glanced uneasily at the Roman Governor. Pilate, clapping in time to the music, seemed to have missed this jab, but his wife squinted at us suspiciously. Antipas and Herodias beamed back at her like grateful guests.

Later, back in my room, Gundi was eager to hear about the dinner. “Was Lady Herodias wearing my hair?”

“What nonsense are you talking?” Gundi’s knot of sand-colored, gray-streaked hair had been on her own head all evening. And why would Herodias want to wear it, anyway?

“You didn’t know?” asked Gundi. “That’s why she bought me years ago—for my hair as yellow as beaten flax. She had it sheared off and made into a wig. Then, when she was expecting you, she kept me to be your nursemaid. Oh, yes, that blond wig is my hair.”

I was amazed. Why didn’t I know this? Of course, ever since I’d been old enough to notice the color of my nursemaid’s hair, it had been grayish. It was hard to imagine a young, really blond Gundi.

“For a year or more,” Gundi went on as she unpinned my
stola,
“I was so ashamed, going about with cropped hair. But I made great sport for her ladyship.” There was a harsh note in her voice. “Once, at the baths with her friends, she pulled off my head scarf and pretended to think I was a man. ‘A man sneaked into the women’s baths!’ she shouted, and they all laughed.”

I stared at Gundi, thinking of the grudge my nursemaid had hidden all these years. But quickly Gundi put on the false smile with which slaves cover up their feelings. “No matter,” she said cheerily. Loosening the silk cord of my
stola,
she helped me undress. “Was Cupid busy for you this evening? Who did he pierce with his arrows of love?”