The Queen's Handmaid (23 page)

The tables were laid with gold-plated dishes and jeweled wine cups. Torches blazed at all corners of the courtyard and threw leafy shadows like masks across the faces of the gathered nobles and their wives. In the light of the tiny oil lamps Lydia had scattered through the flowers and fruits and silks, the tables glowed like midnight rainbows.

All was ready and the guests were present. She retreated into the corridor, then up the wide front stairs to the second-floor chambers that ringed the courtyard. Mariamme would need assistance to finish dressing and fasten her necklaces. Lydia had neglected her mistress too long in an effort to perfect the banquet.

She paused on the upper floor to peek over the rail at the scene. Simon was right—she had helped to make his event a success. She smiled and turned to continue to Mariamme, but the voices in the open-doored chamber behind her caught her attention.

“Well, they must be found, that is all there is. If the prophecies hold any truth, the time is soon upon us.”

Salome’s voice, low and threatening as always.

Then Cypros. “But if the prophecies are true, how can we—?”

“There is always a way, Mother! But we must know what the scrolls say.”

Lydia’s breath hitched in her chest and she pressed herself against the wall beside the open doorway.

Cypros spoke again. “How can you be so certain they were found? That poor young man—he would have said anything to end his agony. Perhaps it was all a fabrication.”

“No. I have been given to know he spoke the truth. He screamed out the name of Samuel ben Eliezar in Alexandria with his dying breath. If this was not truth, why else would both men I sent to retrieve them have disappeared without a word?”

“You and your dark voices—”

“It is those dark voices that will keep your son on the throne, safe from all contenders!”

A chair scraped across the floor.

Lydia took a small step away from the door but she could not flee. Not yet.

“I know the writings are in Egypt. I will do whatever I must to obtain them.”

“I still do not understand why these scrolls hold any danger for your brother.”

“Argh! If we are to live and rule among these filthy Jews,
Mother, then it behooves you to understand them. Their prophecies speak of a Messiah, a King to rule them forever. And what would happen if these holy writings were brought forth and the people believed them to be written of our boy-priest, Aristobulus?”

Cypros said nothing, but the sound of both women moving across the room filtered to Lydia.

“But the boy will not be a problem for long.” Salome was nearly to the door.

Lydia retreated, back toward the steps she had ascended.

The women appeared in the doorway, Salome smiling, a cold smile of satisfaction. “After all, I am my father’s daughter.”

They passed Lydia in the corridor as if she were not there. When they reached the stairs, her breath expelled in a rush, leaving her chest with a hollow ache.

The
scrolls.
Could Salome speak of any other than those that were even now secreted in Lydia’s own chamber?

But it was the words spoken against Aristobulus that sped her feet toward Mariamme’s chamber. The queen must be warned of the danger to her beloved brother. And Lydia could not lose another brother either.

Leodes was missing from Mariamme’s doorway. The eunuch who had been her personal protector since they came to Jerusalem never left his post. It could only mean that Mariamme had already gone down to the banquet. She must have found another to attend her while Lydia was preoccupied with the preparations. Lydia hurried back to the courtyard, but the festivities had already begun, and it would not be appropriate for her to approach the king and his wife where they dined.

And there was handsome and open-hearted Aristobulus, ruddy with a bit too much wine already, laughing at the flattery
being poured into his ear by a citizen of Jericho on one side and the pleasantries of Herod himself on the other.

Lydia took a breath to steady her racing pulse and nodded to herself. All was well with the royal family, and there would be time to speak to Mariamme when the guests had departed.

She busied herself in the kitchens, not because she was required, but only to distract herself from Salome’s strange and frightening revelations. There were platters to be fixed into more pleasing arrangements before they were carried in an endless parade from kitchen to courtyard, and she kept busy as the evening waned. Simon was not to be seen, perhaps for once trusting his kitchen supervisor.

The evening was still warm, and some of the men slipped from the courtyard at Herod’s insistence that they experience the pleasures of his new swimming pool. The women gathered in little knots of conversation, and servants moved silently through the tables, gathering the remnants of the meal.

The party atmosphere had quieted when the first scream was heard.

Lydia’s stomach lurched at the sound. She had never heard Mariamme lift her voice, but it was most certainly her mistress who screamed and screamed again.

Was the baby come too soon? She had been having some pains of late, and earlier in the pregnancy there had been signs of a possible miscarriage. Lydia dropped the basket of wilted flowers and ran toward the screams, past the clusters of noblewomen who stood with mouths agape.

Through the south entrance, out into the night air. The screams had come from outside.

There, there she was. Near the swimming pool. Not doubled
over with birth pains but huddled against Sohemus, Herod’s friend and captain of the guard. Mariamme’s face was buried against his chest.

A group of men, several of them dripping from the pool with hastily tied towels at their waists, huddled in a circle, bent over a prone form.

The stars swam in the sky above Lydia’s head.

She took two shaky steps forward, leaned against the air that had grown thick enough to clog her throat.

Aristobulus, naked and blue, lay at their feet.

She could not breathe. Could not draw freshness into her lungs. Could not expel the stale air that congealed in her chest like dark blood. A black fuzziness brushed the edges of her vision like vulture wings, and pinpricks of light flashed deep behind her eyes.

Not
again.

She was eleven and terrified. Wet and cold and near drowned herself. Screaming and screaming.

Her legs collapsed, too lifeless to hold her upright.

“Lydia.”

The ground did not rush up to meet her. Only a pair of solid arms around her middle, the scrape of a stubbled jaw against her cheek, the smell of smoke and spice.

She struggled in his arms. Thrashed out against the slippery Nile reeds that would drag her to the bottom. Gagged on river water.

“Sshh, Lydia, you are safe.”

Pressed against him, she beat her fists against Simon’s chest, and the air returned to her own. “Not again!” Her body shook with the wet chill, her teeth rattling against her skull.

Simon swept her up and carried her into the palace.

She half sensed the rush of banquet guests past her, the deserted courtyard, the smallness of Simon’s private office.

He set her in his chair with a jarring thump, disappeared, returned in a moment with a coarse blanket and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders. “You have had a shock.”

Her teeth still tapped a frantic beat and her body convulsed with sobs she could not control. Simon pulled her into an embrace and ran brisk hands across her back to warm her.

“Wh-what happened?”

“I do not know. Apparently there was some horseplay in the pool. Men dunking each other under the water and the like. No one noticed him in trouble.”

She shook her head, the motion jerky and stilted. “No. No, it was not an accident.”

Simon put two fingers over her mouth and his eyes said enough.
Do
not
repeat
such
a
thing.

She shook off his touch and whispered to herself, to the floor, to the gods. “I am a worthless servant. What good have I ever been to anyone?”

Simon clutched at her hands. “Lydia. Lydia, look at me.” He sat back into a squat before her chair. “I know you cared greatly for him.” His deep, gray-flecked eyes were sad but quizzical. “Or was it someone else? You said ‘Not again.’ Were you reminded—?”

“It was a long time ago.” She brushed the hair from her eyes, from her tear-soaked cheeks.

He nodded, as though the explanation was enough.

It would have to be.

She should have warned Mariamme as soon as she heard Salome plotting.

The shivering returned, along with the suffocating feeling of the weight of river water against her chest.

She had thought to give Ari the scrolls. But now he was gone. And it had been her fault.

Once again it had been her fault.

Twenty-One

S
alome should have known they would be forced to return to Jerusalem with the boy’s body.

There was no question of Aristobulus being buried anywhere but in the tomb of his fathers, and the preparations for the journey began even before the last banquet guest had departed.

Ah well, the would-be king would not return to his city with the same sort of fanfare under which he had ascended the hill to the Temple the week before.

Salome directed Riva to gather her clothes and jewels for the journey, but only she herself was permitted to pack and store her elements of worship for her patron goddess, Al-Uzzá.

The caravan left the following day, with Mariamme and Alexandra sitting white lipped and silent in the chariot of mourners, the body under wraps and hidden from the sun, pulled behind on a wheeled cart.

Salome rode with Herod and their mother, discussing their next action in tones quiet enough to be mistaken for grief. It was
agreed that Ananel should resume his post as High Priest. The people would feel some satisfaction in his restoration.

But the satisfaction she should have felt in having the contender to the throne removed evaporated before the family’s seven days of mourning had even ended. A letter arrived, a messenger from Syria with word from the Roman Marc Antony.

Herod was to join him on the battlefield at once, to explain the death of the High Priest in his personal swimming pool.

In their mother’s private chamber, Salome paced beside the open window that faced west over the city. Fiery shades of sunset slashed the sky and lit the roofs of houses. Despite the holiday in Jericho, the scrolls were never far from her mind. She must have them, must make them hers to decipher to understand when and where this Messiah would appear. Or perhaps was even now among them. Once she had this knowledge, she could destroy him, and with him, the hope of a thousand zealots who would see the kingdom ripped from her family.

Across the room, Herod crumpled the letter and threw it across the room. “How could he possibly have heard so quickly?”

Salome stopped her pacing and shot her brother a chilly look. “Surely you are not such a fool.” She raked a hand through her hair, loosening its tight binding. “It is that simpering wife of yours and her monster of a mother. They are determined to use Cleopatra’s hatred to poison your friendship with Antony.”

Herod growled low in his throat. “I should have kept that woman under lock and key despite the mourning period. Sohemus would have made certain Alexandra never wrote another letter.”

Salome folded her arms. “And your wife? Are you still so blind—?”

“Close your mouth, Salome. You are not to speak of Mariamme.”

“Argh!” She turned to Cypros, who reclined quiet but angry on a low couch. “Do you hear him, Mother? Tell your son that he makes a fool of himself for that girl.” She turned on him. “Mariamme hates you, Herod. Can you not see—?”

“Enough!” Her brother’s face reddened and his fists tightened at his sides. “She is my wife and perhaps mother to the next king of Judea.”

“Yes, yes, we all know she will soon place a child in your arms.” Cursed, wretched baby that clung to life despite Salome’s efforts. “And have you so soon forgotten the son you already have?”

He waved a hand. “Child of my youth. Before I knew what family blood meant to these Jews.” He pushed his hair behind his shoulder. “But perhaps you are only jealous, sister. With no child of your own?”

If she could have struck him dead where he stood and still retained her position of power in the palace, Salome would have done it.

“Perhaps I should not have been forced to marry that old goat of an uncle.”

Herod scowled. “Joseph is a good man.”

“Joseph is an
old
man. I do not know what our father was thinking, marrying me to his brother instead of into the royal Jewish family, as you were.”

“Fortunate for me, since you now occupy yourself with keeping
me
on the throne.”

The barbed words were undergirded with something like affection, and Salome begrudged him a half smile. “We do know how to get things done.”

But Herod had turned serious again, his eyes on the wadded
letter on the floor. “Do you think he has another in mind for the throne?”