The Queen's Handmaid (22 page)

The heat rose to her face again, and she looked away from the furrowed brow and the deep eyes that gave away his soul. Looked to his hand, still grasping her arm, and noted disconnectedly how strong and tanned it was.

“I am not as Egyptian as you think.”

He dropped his hand. “No? Converted, are you? Like Herod?”

The ridicule had returned. She took a step backward again, her hand pressing the pendant under her robes. “Perhaps I am Jewish.”

“Ha! Two years in Jerusalem does not—”

“My mother was Jewish.”

Simon circled to stand before her. “Is this true?” His face seemed lit with something—anger? Disbelief?

“I . . . I believe so. I never knew her.”

“And you were raised in Egypt, in the palace of the Greek whore.”

Lydia flinched at the epithet but nodded.

“So then you have seen the truth since last we met! You have discovered what it is to be Jewish, and you are ready to fight against the Gentile dogs who would steal our land from under our very feet?”

Lydia’s breath had shallowed. “I . . . I am only trying to serve my mistress—”

“Bah!” He turned away. “Perhaps you have not changed.”

Anger flamed in her chest. “Who are you to criticize my service? You labor here year-round to create luxury for an absent king whom you despise—”

In a move both sudden and unexpected, Simon clapped a hand over her mouth. “Quiet, little Egyptian! Do you want me hanging from the gallows by morning?”

She shook off his hand, stared into his eyes. “Then why do you do it?”

His hands were wrapped around her upper arms and he pulled her close. “I will do whatever I must to see Israel free. There is no greater calling. Would you have me simply wait, year after year, for someone else to rescue our people?”

Year
after
year.
The words echoed in her mind, reverberating against the memories of the years marked waiting at the Temple for the promised Chakkiym.

Had she done enough? If the dying Samuel had slipped the scrolls into the eager hands of Simon instead of her, would he have already accomplished the task?

He shook her slightly. “You see it, don’t you, Lydia? The time is drawing near. Our liberation is at hand.”

There it was—the intensity she remembered, undimmed by the years that had passed. Her gaze was fixed on his mouth, on the way his lips formed the words, like an orator in the marketplace, passionate and persuasive.

“You know what it is to long for freedom!”

She said nothing, only listened to her heartbeat, then closed her eyes. It was as though there had been something dormant within her since they met—something waiting to be awakened.

The heat between them shifted. The press of his lips against her own was as expected as her next breath. She rose to meet his kiss, joined him in it.

And in the kiss something was unleashed within her that had little to do with the way of a man with a woman, and everything to do with the way of an Israelite passionate for her people and her land. Like the winter rains thundering through a dry wadi, it swept her into something connected, something Jewish, something forbidden.

She was still adrift in a great sea, perhaps, but she was
part
of that sea, a piece of a greater whole, joined to a movement and a cause more important than her own.

Simon pulled away from the kiss, pushed her from him, took a step backward, as if he had shocked even himself with his boldness. He looked at the ground as though shamed.

But Lydia felt no shame.

The churning of her spirit within her was like an answering cry to a shouted invitation.

There would be no waiting another year. No biding her time until the next Day of Atonement. Somewhere in Judea, someone must know of the Chakkiym. Know how to find the one who would take the scrolls and deliver them to those who would use them best.
She would find that person. She would take her destiny and shape it with her own capable hands.

Compelled to seal her decision with an act outside herself, she took three swift steps forward, wrapped her hands around Simon’s neck, and kissed him soundly once more, eyes wide open.

And then she ran from the courtyard before he had a chance to recover his voice and deliver the reprimand she did not want to hear.

Twenty

T
he Jericho palace had enough halls and corridors for Lydia to wander with her thoughts, and she strolled with little awareness. They had been in residence several days, long enough for her to memorize its layout, from the tiny chamber at the end of a corridor in the lowest level, where she slept and kept the scrolls hidden, to the huge stone pool for swimming on the south side of the palace walls. A luxury Herod insisted upon when he rebuilt this palace, proof that he was as modern as any Roman.

She had lived with this family, this strange hybrid of Idumean, Greek, and Jewish, for nearly five years now and had brought her Greek-Egyptian heritage with her. Simon’s patriotism showed her that it was time to choose, time to become her true self. Was there a way to learn more about her parents? At least she could learn what it was to be Jewish, not simply from David’s lessons and Mariamme’s example, but by a studied pursuit. She would find a synagogue when they returned to Jerusalem. Ask questions about the prophecies of Daniel, discover an expert. Someone who knew of the Chakkiym and the lost scrolls.

“Lydia!”

She jerked her head upward at the sudden call.

Mariamme stood against the wall near the end of the corridor, the light from the courtyard beyond outlining her figure and that of another, a man. Mariamme shifted slightly away from her companion.

“My lady.” Lydia bowed.

The man kept his gaze on Mariamme. It was Sohemus, captain of Herod’s guard. His personal friendship with Herod had earned him the unenviable position of Alexandra’s keeper, so he had come to Jericho with the family. He wore the insignia of his position but did not seem engaged in official business at the moment.

“I was just . . . asking Sohemus . . . if he had seen you.” Mariamme cleared her throat and pushed away from the wall. “Come, I have a task for you.”

Lydia followed, passing Sohemus, who did not move, and giving him a polite smile.

Mariamme led her to a small, windowless chamber off the central courtyard. The room was lit by a single oil lamp on a desk, half blocked by the man who sat before it.

“I have found her, Simon.” She entered the room. “Now I have you both.”

Simon turned from his scrolls and pens, neatly organized on the desk, then stood.

Lydia hovered in the doorway and did not meet his gaze, which felt a bit cold even from this distance.

“Lydia, I have given Simon instructions about a banquet to be held tomorrow evening. We are going to entertain the finest of the city’s nobles in style.”

Simon ran a hand through his dark hair. “My lady, it will be very difficult in such a short time—”

Mariamme waved away his protest. “It must be immediate.” Her attention drifted to the empty doorway. “My sister-in-law, Salome, is already trying to set herself up here as though she were queen. We must demonstrate that Herod’s wife is the true queen.”

Lydia bent her head to hide a smile. The words came from Mariamme, but their source was clearly Alexandra.

“Lydia, you must help Simon with the preparations.”

Simon started forward. “There is no need, my lady—”

But Mariamme was already pulling Lydia into the room. “Make use of her, Simon. You will find she is a wonder at this sort of thing. Give her a room with tables to adorn, and it will be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.”

“Indeed.” Simon’s noncommittal word hung in the air as Mariamme departed, leaving them stranded and awkward.

Simon inhaled and lifted his chin. “Shall we get started, then?”

So there was to be no mention of what had transpired between them, only this angry coldness. Perhaps that was for the best.

But if Simon resented Mariamme’s dictate that Lydia be involved, he did not show it. Indeed, by the next afternoon she was set up in the central courtyard where the banquet was to be held with everything she had requested. Three slave girls worked at her direction, transforming the courtyard. Crates of fresh fruits weighted the tables, along with heaps of fragrant blooms and bolts of Eastern silks in colors like precious jewels. A wooden-slatted box of ripe peaches warming in the sun gave off a heavenly scent, tempting her to forget her work and bite into the juicy flesh.

When Simon appeared, brow puckered at the chaos of the
overloaded tables, she laughed. “You must wait. It will come together. I promise.”

Simon snapped his fingers toward the slave girls, then flicked a hand toward the kitchens. “The girls are needed to prepare food.”

They trotted out, giggling, until they passed their scowling superior. The first of them turned as she passed Simon and thrust out her tongue toward his back. He ignored their passing.

Lydia huffed at the reduction of her workforce. “Perhaps I shall retract my promise if I am to have no help!”

“I will help you.”

Lydia bit her lip and bent to the flowers. “You are already annoyed that I am involved at all. I do not expect you to attend me like a slave.”

He came to stand beside her, reached for a knife, and followed her lead in stripping leaves from the lower stems of the white lilies and setting them aside in a glossy pile. His arm brushed hers and did not move away. “I am not annoyed.” The words were given softly, with his attention fixed on the flowers.

Lydia sighed and set her own knife on the table. “Simon, I must apologize for what happened—”

“No. You must not.”

“It was only the fierce way you spoke of Israel, of freedom . . . It . . . it made me feel—”

“Well, I shall not apologize. You are a pretty girl, admired by everyone from servant to queen, and I am certain you are accustomed to such bursts of admiration.”

Lydia shook her head. “Have you not met Riva? Or Salome?”

Simon let out a hiss of derision. “Riva admires only herself. And Salome? Fancying herself as royalty? You are more of a princess than she will ever be.”

Lydia fought the flush that crept across her throat, glad they worked side by side and he could not see her face.

“It is obvious the queen both depends on and is fond of you.”

Lydia rubbed a lily petal between two fingers. “You have also gained much since last we met. The new palace is impressive.”

“Yes.” He laughed, humorless and clipped. “And I am so well loved here.”

She turned, still holding the stem, and lifted the bloom to enjoy its scent. “They see only your hardness, Simon.” She waved the flower at him until he looked at her. “Perhaps show them less of your thorns.”

He smiled and reached for another stalk, his attention on the work. “And more of my petal softness?”

“Do not pretend you have none. I know you better than that.”

His hand stilled in mid-reach, then dropped to the table as though he needed it for balance.

Why had she said such a thing? She did not know him.

“And this is perhaps one reason why everyone admires you, Lydia. You see the best in us all.” His voice was quiet, the words uttered with a trace of regret.

She gathered a pile of lilies into her arms and carried them to a massive ebony vase at the end of the table, painted in the Greek style with gold-leafed figures chasing around its girth. She slid the blooms one by one into the vase, arranging them asymmetrically. A nearby bowl of lemons and oranges filled the air with a citrusy freshness, but it was still the peaches that tempted her most.

“The queen was right.” Simon brought the rest of the lilies. “You have a way with beauty.”

“I want the banquet to be perfect for Mariamme.”

“You care for her greatly.”

Lydia shrugged. “She is a kind and fair mistress.”

He handed her new stems, and they worked in tandem to fill the vase. “And the boy you are so friendly with—what is his name?”

“David?” Lydia pushed past Simon to gather the stripped leaves into a pile to be burned. “We have served together for some time now, that is all. It is unwise for staff to form strong attachments, don’t you think? Positions are changed, people let go or moved.” She unwound a bolt of jade silk, letting the fabric pool on the table. “It only causes problems if people become too connected.”

Simon did not answer.

She glanced sideways to find him chuckling.

“I amuse you?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I have never met a woman so insistent on remaining alone while at the same time drawing everyone so inescapably to herself.”

She inhaled, a deep breath to push against the constriction in her chest that was ever present when someone got too close, and grabbed the knife to slash the silk into two equal pieces. “And what about you? Are you still alone? Or have you married since last I saw you?”

“No. I have not married.”

She pushed past him, back to the vase. “Why not?”

“Too much to do.”

At this, she laughed aloud and the strange tension broke.

He came to stand behind her, watched as she arranged the fabric into a river of jade, flowing around the vase, then scattered a few of the fallen lily petals across the silk.

“Breathtaking.”

The word was whispered against the back of her hair, and it raised a chill across her arms. The sun had fallen lower than the
rim of the courtyard, and she shivered in the waning afternoon. “I am glad you like it.”

“You are cold.” His hand rose toward her arm.

“A little.” She straightened and reached for the second piece of silk. “But the work will keep me warm.”

He stepped to the table to survey the effect, then plucked a peach from the crate. “Your efforts are for Mariamme, I know. But you will make
me
look good in the process, and so I thank you.”

She smiled. “You see. You are quite capable of good manners.”

He dipped his head and handed her the fruit. “Perhaps I have only had a fine teacher today.”

She took the peach from his hand and bit into its softness. She should focus on the great amount of work still to be done, and the banquet only a few hours away. Yes, he could be charming when he wanted to be. But the brusque overseer might have been better. There was something decidedly dangerous about this other Simon.