The Queen's Handmaid (25 page)

Lydia took a step toward her, hand outstretched like a claw.

Salome scuttled backward, her own hands thrown in front for protection. “Get away!”

It was more than the barred entrance to the girl’s soul. There was a power that surrounded the servant, a power Salome had never encountered. She gasped for air, her chest constricting. What god or goddess was this?

And why had she been abandoned by her own? “You are protected. Not from within, from your own doing. From without. Whose power surrounds you?”

But Lydia said nothing.

Al-Uzzá had failed her. Salome had been carried on a wave of energy, buoyed by the goddess’s support for so many years, transported toward her goals. But this—this was a different sort of power, and the wave of power collapsed under her, leaving her suffocating in darkness.

She cursed her buckling legs, cursed the stone floor that cracked against her knees, cursed the girl who bent over her, lips still moving in silent incantation.

“Salome? Are you ill?”

No incantation. Only words of pretended concern.

She braced her hands against the floor, knees throbbing and chest heaving. Tears dripped from her eyes, but she would be dead before she let the girl see them.

Lydia leaned forward, her outer robe falling toward the floor and a leather-corded pendant escaping from her tunic. The pendant swung before Salome’s eyes.

In the darkness it was difficult to see. Was that—? She grabbed at it.

Lydia pulled back.

But Salome had seen it. A bronze disc with a raised relief.

“Where did you get that?” She peered at the necklace from her place on the floor. “Are you also a thief?”

Lydia’s hand circled over it, hiding the pendant. “I will call for the palace physician.”

“No.” Salome pushed herself to standing. “No, just go.” She would not admit that with Lydia’s presence removed, her physical symptoms would abate. The servant seemed to have no awareness of her own power.

Indeed, when the door closed behind Lydia, Salome’s strength rushed in like a torrent filling an empty cistern.

The goddess was silent, but Salome was not.

In a rage that gave her uncanny sight into every object in the dark room, she hurled pots and overturned furniture and screamed.

She had gone unchallenged for too many years to be overthrown by a servant.

Her list of objectives had a new addition.

Mariamme and her baby must be eliminated, yes. But Lydia of Alexandria must go with them.

Twenty-Two

L
ydia laid Mariamme’s yellow linen undertunic over a padded couch in the queen’s bedchamber to dry. If Mariamme grew much larger, she might no longer fit the tunic.

“There is another here that has a tear, Lydia. Would you see to it?”

Lydia straightened her shoulders with a brief closing of her eyes, then turned to the queen and took the ripped dress from her. Her fingers snagged against the silk. “There seems to be no end to clothing troubles today, my lady.” She meant for the words to sound light, but her irritation leaked out.

Mariamme did not seem to notice. She sat at her dressing table, fiddling with her cosmetics. The room was one of elegance and comfort. From the frescoed walls to decorative pottery and luxurious bedcoverings, Lydia had spared no effort in making Mariamme’s chamber the finest in the palace.

The brazier in the corner had mercifully died down to embers. The room was overly warm. Without the brazier’s light, only a single lamp dispelled the evening gloom. Lydia moved about the
chamber, straightening cushions, clearing cups and platters from earlier in the day, running a damp cloth over the marble furniture and bases of the green-and-gold-painted columns. Her stomach churned with an evening meal that did not sit well, and her thoughts were far from her duties.

Their sudden departure from Jericho in the wake of Aristobulus’s death—his
murder
—had been necessary but painful, if she were to admit it. While her friendship with David had been a balm since leaving Caesarion in Egypt, the beginning of the friendship with Simon had been something altogether different. The way he comforted her after the drowning . . .

She shook off the dark thoughts and folded the jumble of waiting baby clothes from a woven basket. She was back in Jerusalem now, and if the High Priest’s death had done nothing else, it had served to solidify her decision to take the matter of the scrolls into her own hands and find the Chakkiym before the next Yom HaKippurim. Before Salome realized they were hidden in her own palace.

Lydia moved from the baby clothes to examine a new dress that had been sent up for Mariamme earlier in the day. She would add some gold stitching at the shoulders and waist, but the Tyrian purple dye was still so pungent, it watered her eyes.

Salome.

Lydia’s shoulders convulsed in a little chill, a reminder of the encounter. She had been nearly oblivious to Salome and her dark obsessions all these years. What bearing did any such thing have on her?

And yet in Salome’s chamber, there had been something—a feeling, a pressure—upon her that had been very personal. She had fallen under the scrutiny of Herod’s sister in the baths. Salome
was angry that Lydia repeated the threat against Aristobulus and helped the women get a letter out of the palace. But the animosity Lydia felt in the woman’s chamber was something more.

“You are protected. Not from within. From without.”

What did it mean? Was it Samuel’s promise that his God would protect her? She had done nothing to earn it, though she was trying to learn and sometimes sent a few coins with David for sacrifice at the Temple, as Samuel had done in Alexandria. At the thought of her old friend, an unexpected jolt of anger coursed through her. Why had he given her this task that seemed to draw darkness to her—forces she did not understand? She needed to get rid of those scrolls.

“Lydia, come and brush my hair. It is nearly time for the dinner.”

She took up the brush and ran it through Mariamme’s heavy red hair mechanically. The passing chatter of a cluster of servant girls in the hall grated against her nerves.

“You have been quiet tonight, Lydia.”

“Apologies, my lady.”

Mariamme shook her head slightly under the brush. “No need. I am merely concerned. But then, you have been somber since Jericho.”

Images of Aristobulus’s blue body floated in her memory.

“We all have.”

Mariamme fell silent and her head lowered as if too heavy to hold upright.

Lydia paused in her brushing and put a hand to Mariamme’s shoulder. “I am sorry again, my lady. I did not mean to remind you—”

“As if I could forget.” Mariamme sniffed, lifted her head, and indicated Lydia should continue brushing. “But I am trying.” She
half turned with a smile. “I thought perhaps your sadness arose from leaving behind that palace manager—Simon, is it?”

Had Mariamme learned to read her so well? The distance from Jerusalem to Jericho seemed vast and hopeless.

The brush hit a tangle and caught. Lydia jerked it downward.

Mariamme squeaked in protest. “Oh my. I was only teasing, but perhaps there is too much truth.” She turned, forcing Lydia to stop brushing. “You know staff liaisons are considered inappropriate. I’m well aware that it goes on all the time downstairs, but it cannot be public.” She returned to facing her bronze mirror. “Besides, you are far too valuable as my maidservant to lose you to a foolish flirtation. Are you not happy with me?”

“Of course, my lady. You are very good to me.” A coldness had crept through her limbs, despite the warm room.

“And I will keep Salome away from you, I promise. You must not pay any mind to her ravings.”

Lydia put her fingertips to the pendant under her tunic. “My lady . . .” She hesitated, her usual reticence to share anything private seizing the words in her throat.

“What is it, Lydia? There is something else tonight, I can feel it.”

Lydia rocked on the edge of indecision for the space of two heartbeats. Was it not better to remain silent? A flush of fear swept her. But curiosity won out. She pulled the pendant from under her clothing.

“I have never shown you this. It was . . . it was my mother’s, and is all I have of her.”

Mariamme smiled, a smile warm with sympathy, and leaned toward the pendant. “You know so little of her, I am glad you have something to—”

The words hung unsaid, and even in the light of the single lamp, the sudden paleness of Mariamme’s face was startling. Much like Salome’s reaction.

“Where did you get it, Lydia?”

The chill across her skin grew, and the pendant seemed like ice in her fingers. “Salome saw it. She accused me of stealing it. But, as I told you, the pendant was my mother’s.”

Mariamme was standing now, and she looped a finger around the leather cord, then grabbed Lydia’s arm with her other hand and pulled her toward the lamp. She held the pendant closer to her eye.

“It is the same.” Her words were a whisper. “I am certain it is the same.”

A foreboding hammered in Lydia’s chest. “I did not steal it.”

Mariamme dropped the necklace and peered into Lydia’s eyes. “Of course not.” She eyed the silent hallway, then took up Lydia’s arm again. “Come. Everyone will have gone down to dinner. Now is the best time.”

Lydia followed Mariamme from the chamber. Her eunuchguard, Leodes, straightened at the door. Eunuchs were standard for the protection of royal women, but gentle, good-humored Leodes was an unlikely choice. Herod’s persistent jealousy would not allow for anyone who might tempt Mariamme’s affections.

He stepped to Mariamme’s side at once.

“We are only going down the hall, Leodes. Stay here at my door.”

He smiled and gave a quick nod.

Lydia glided silently behind her mistress, who seemed to take care to stay close to the wall of the corridor and keep her sandals from clacking against the stone floor.

How was it possible she had worn the pendant for all these years, when every day its secret could have been illuminated if only Lydia had shared it with Mariamme? Stupid, foolish girl. And yet, at the same time, had she made a mistake? Revealed too much?

Mariamme paused in the upper corridor, listening. Lydia slowed behind her.

Apparently satisfied, Mariamme continued a few steps and disappeared into a bedchamber.

Alexandra’s bedchamber.

Like Mariamme’s room, it was lit with only a single lamp while its mistress was gone and was empty of servants. Empty of adornment as well, in sharp contrast to Mariamme’s room.

Mariamme crossed the chamber on sure feet, directly to her mother’s dressing table. A squat box of cedar sat in its center and she picked up the box, brought it to the lamp on a side table, and set it down. “Come, Lydia. Come closer.”

Lydia pressed damp hands against her robes and took a shaky breath.

Mariamme did not seem to notice her discomfort. She was rummaging through her mother’s things—mostly jewelry, it would appear. “Here. Here they are.”

They?

The queen pulled two objects from the small box and held them to the light. She glanced at Lydia. “What are you still doing over there? Come here.”

Lydia crossed the space and willed herself to look at Mariamme’s find.

Mariamme placed them both in her own palm, faceup, and pulled Lydia’s pendant from under her tunic once more. “You see? They are the same.”

Lydia’s legs were trembling and her breath came short and shallow. How could this be?

Her own pendant had a loop of iron forged to its metal disc where the leather cord was strung. The two in Mariamme’s palm did not. But there was no mistaking the embossed designs. Identical, all three.

“Wh-what are they?” Her voice sounded scraped from within her chest.

Mariamme shook her head. “I don’t know. I used to play with Mother’s jewelry when I was a young girl and saw them here often. But I never asked.” She looked at Lydia’s face, then replaced the discs in the box and snapped it closed. “Do not have any fear, Lydia. Obviously you did not steal it, and I will tell no one you have it.”

“Salome knows.”

Mariamme’s brow furrowed. “I will ask my mother about these two.”

At Lydia’s intake of breath she placed a comforting hand around her arm. “Discreetly. Do not worry. She will not know why I ask.”

Voices in the corridor drew their attention.

“I must go to dinner.” Mariamme squeezed her arm. “You go to bed. I can get a slave girl to attend me this evening.” She moved from the room as quickly as her overburdened belly would allow.

Lydia followed, then nodded to the queen and took the corridor in the opposite direction.

Go to bed? She might never sleep again.

Lydia descended the back stairs of the palace and passed through the kitchens, busy with the serving of the evening meal. A familiar laugh, seductive and playful, came from the corner.

Riva shouldered up to a serving boy, five years her junior at least, laughing at his shy discomfort.

Lydia looked away. Riva made a fool of herself. Did the woman even understand discretion?

On the far side of the kitchens, a narrow set of stone steps climbed to the second level of the palace, and then another to the third. Lydia emerged into the night air and sucked in great gulps of it, as if it would clear the muddle of her mind.