The Queen's Handmaid (35 page)

“Cleopatra, you mean.”

He sat a bit straighter on the throne but laughed. “Oh, we have already had a scene or two since her arrival this morning, trust me. I doubt she has any more wish to see me.”

Lydia’s legs were a bit shaky, and she wished that the meeting were over as well.

Mariamme began at last, first with a history lesson that seemed to amuse Alexandra and bore Herod. It was the history of the Hasmoneans, after all, and besides seeing the wisdom of marrying into the family, Herod had little use for any of them.

“Mother, you told me that your grandfather gave his royal seal to each of his children, including the daughter who was married off to Cleopatra’s father’s brother.”

Alexandra shrugged. “I have no idea what became of it, if that’s what you’re asking. You’ll have the two upon my death, but I suppose the third is lost.”

“It is not lost.” Mariamme nodded to Lydia.

She pulled the pendant from under her tunic.

At this, Alexandra shot from her chair and crossed to the two
of them. “What is this?” She bent to the pendant, her head brushing Lydia’s chin. “You have brought us a thief, Mariamme! Where did you steal this, girl?”

“She did not steal it.” Mariamme edged closer to Lydia and pushed her mother back a step. “It was her mother’s.”

Even Herod was standing now and took a few steps off the platform to get a closer look. “Her mother’s?”

Lydia’s breath held suspended in her chest while the two looked from the pendant to her face and back to the pendant.

“Her mother was your aunt Shira, married to the king of Cyprus. When Rome annexed Cyprus and the king took his own life, his wife fled to Egypt for protection. She was late in pregnancy. Cleopatra’s older sister had her killed and believed the baby dead as well. I believe servants rescued the baby from the woman’s womb and raised her in the palace as one of their own.”

Alexandra took a step back, her eyes narrowing. “You
believe
?” She huffed. “You have no other proof than a pendant the girl could have stolen.”

Herod was circling Lydia, looking her up and down, as though evaluating how he could best use this shiny new tool that had been delivered.

“Stolen from whom? Your father’s sister was murdered the same year as Lydia’s birth. The pendant was given to Lydia just before she left Egypt, by an old man who had known her all his life. He told her it had belonged to her mother,” Mariamme said.

“Old man?” Alexandra laughed. “Let us bring this old man here, then. Let him tell us what he knows.”

“He is dead.” They were the first words Lydia had spoken since entering, and she delivered them with head high, looking directly into Alexandra’s eyes.

“Ho! The servant girl has already acquired the bearing of a queen, I see. That did not take long.”

Herod stopped circling and folded his arms over his chest. “Your mother is right, Mariamme. The information seems to fit, but we must have some sort of confirmation. But if it is true, we have been given a rare treasure—an enemy of Cleopatra’s who is a friend of ours.”

“I am not—”

“Not what?” Herod laughed. “An enemy of Cleopatra’s?”

When Lydia said nothing he laughed again. “Yes, you know her well enough, don’t you? How many family members has she killed to ensure they were no threat to her throne? Brothers? Sisters? Do you think she would hesitate at a cousin—and one who had served at her feet?”

No. She would not.

Lydia bent her head, a familiar coldness seeping in. The connection she had felt to Egypt since last night, the warm sense of belonging that came with knowing she was a Ptolemy, was smothered by the heavy truth Herod spoke. Cleopatra would never let her return to Egypt. She would never even let her live.

“Then if you are an enemy of Cleopatra’s, my girl, you had better agree that you are a friend of Judea, eh?” His brow furrowed. “That is, if we can find someone else who knows the truth.”

“Banafrit.”

The three in the room waited, as her name meant nothing. Even Mariamme did not seem to recognize it when Lydia had spoken of her only minutes ago. Was this what it was to be part of a royal family? The names and lives of the servants no more consequential than the details of the next meal?

Lydia spoke to Mariamme. “The cook whom Cleopatra
brought with her. She has known me since birth and knew Samuel well. She may know more of the circumstances of my birth than she has told.”

Herod snapped a finger at Alexandra. “Bring this cook. And Salome. My sister should hear this as well.”

Alexandra’s dark eyes flashed.

Was she angry at being ordered like a servant, or because the ever-present Salome was to be favored with such important information?

She left, however, without a word.

The three remaining waited in silence. Herod returned to his throne, but Mariamme stood beside Lydia and threaded her arm through hers.

The throne room door swept open a few minutes later, admitting Salome, Alexandra, and Banafrit, who waddled at their heels with eyes as wide as melons. When she saw Lydia, her face broke into joy.

Lydia gave a little cry of joy herself, escaped from Mariamme’s arm, and ran to Banafrit.

She had never hugged the old woman in her life, and it had never been more inappropriate, but she did not care. She threw her arms around the woman’s shoulders and embraced her and all of Egypt with her.

Banafrit gave an uncomfortable laugh and patted Lydia’s shoulder twice, then pulled away. “I had hoped you would still be in service here, girl. That I would get a chance to see you.” She held Lydia’s arms and turned her back and forth a bit. “Ah, you have turned out fine. From a pretty girl to a beautiful woman since last I saw you. I should think you have all the male servants—”

Herod cleared his throat.

Banafrit dropped her hands and her plump cheeks reddened.

“You may visit with your old friend later, woman. Right now we have some questions for you.”

Banafrit’s chin quivered slightly. “My lord, she demanded I cook her favorite—”

“This is not about Cleopatra.” He inclined his head. “Not directly.”

The five women grouped before the throne where Herod sat forward, his arms braced on his legs. “This is about Lydia.”

Banafrit glanced with concern at Lydia, and Lydia smiled in reassurance.

“We want to know the circumstances of Lydia’s birth.”

“Wh-what?”

Herod leaned back. “What do you know of her birth?”

Banafrit bit her lip.

“Please, Banafrit.” Lydia’s voice held a note of desperation. “Tell us what you know.”

The old woman looked to Herod. “You will keep my girl safe? No matter what I tell you?”

Herod dipped his head in acknowledgment, a rare courtesy to a servant.

Banafrit exhaled heavily and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I never thought it was a good idea to keep it from her. The old man . . . the old man said she would be in danger, and I could see his point, so I kept quiet, but I always knew that
she
could be trusted with it, and she went about the palace so gloomy and sad because of the lie we had told her—”

“Woman!” Herod’s voice bounced from the high ceiling and back to Banafrit.

She jumped and sucked in a breath.

“Tell us what you know.”

Banafrit looked to Lydia. “I am sorry, dear. You should have known who you were.”

Mariamme sighed in frustration. “Who is she?”

Banafrit seemed to find focus and courage at last. She puffed out her chest and turned to Herod. “I delivered her myself, my lord. From the womb of the Hasmonean princess Shira, just before she died at the hand of Berenice, supposed queen of Egypt.”

Lydia felt the news like a blow to her chest, even though it had been expected.

The declaration rang in the air of the throne room, and only Salome’s shocked intake of breath followed.

Salome took a step toward Banafrit, her brow creased. “And her father?”

Banafrit seemed surprised by the question, as though Salome should know Egyptian history. “Her father was king of Cyprus, brother to the twelfth Ptolemy.”

Again there was silence.

Banafrit broke the tension with a pitying grasp of Lydia’s arm. “My dear, I am sorry that we lied. He convinced me it was the only way to keep you safe. At first you were too young to understand, but as the years passed and we saw what Cleopatra was like, I came to believe that he was right. Please forgive me.”

Lydia embraced Banafrit once more, buried her face in the old woman’s hair that smelled of an Egyptian palace. “There is nothing to forgive, Banafrit. I owe you my life, and I thank you for it.”

Alexandra stepped closer. “That will be all, Banafrit. You may go. And speak of this to no one, most especially Cleopatra.”

Banafrit nodded, then shot a look at Herod. “You promised. Keep her safe.”

And then she bustled from the throne room, abandoning Lydia with her equals.

Salome was already pacing, one forefinger placed against her chin and her narrow lips pursed. “I always knew something was strange about that girl. Could not discern the source.” She stopped and faced her brother. “We can use this. You know that, Herod. We can use her somehow to bring down Cleopatra.”

Mariamme stepped close to Lydia. “I brought her for your protection, not for you to set her up as a target for Cleopatra’s paranoia.”

Salome laughed, the sound derisive. “Oh, it is not paranoia. We have every intention of destroying that woman.”

“You cannot—”

“Mariamme.” Herod’s voice was low, almost pleading. “If you understood her great hatred for our family, you would see that we must work against her. Just this morning, after arriving, she tried again to seduce me. When I refused her and left, I found her servant waiting outside the door with instructions to cry out that I had attacked and forced her!”

“I understand that she is ruthless, but must we follow in her footsteps?”

Lydia struggled to find words to add to the conversation that swirled around her, but what could she contribute that was not already known? She had no wish to leave her fate in the hands of Herod and his chief adviser, Salome, who wanted her dead, but neither did she have any idea of what should happen next.

“Listen.” Salome braced her hands against her hips. “The Egyptians have no love for their queen, since she began courting Rome more than ten years ago. And Rome hates her. She has no allies but Marc Antony, who is quickly falling from favor himself.
If Rome were to put Lydia on the throne of Egypt, the people would love it. One of their own, ascended to power.” She smiled, her near-black eyes sparking. “Why not?”

Mariamme faced off with Salome. “Because you might as well cover her with a lion’s hide and send her into the arena for a hunt! Cleopatra would kill her before the gold cobra was ever placed on her head.”

Lydia raised a hand, a slight, inconsequential movement that barely arrested attention. “I . . . I have no wish to be queen.”

Salome and Herod both sighed at once.

“Lydia.” Salome inclined her head as though speaking to a child. “We do not care at all what you wish.”

Thirty-One

L
ydia escaped the throne room while the royal family was still plotting her future.

She walked with head down, unthinking about her destination, with her new and old sense of herself bobbing in her head like driftwood in heavy surf. The true past, the untrue past, and the unknown future shifted until she could barely catch hold.

The kitchens were humming. Servants dashed past, their tunics a multicolored flash, out with trays and in with supplies. A hundred smells assaulted her, along with the chatter of a staff busy with all the preparation for an important guest. She thought of Esther, the wife of Simon’s friend Jonah, who worked with her hands to feed so many children. What would Esther think of Lydia’s sudden rise in status? She passed through, bumped and jostled by a few who looked at her as though she had trespassed in their domain.

She found herself at the door of Simon’s private office. Perhaps she had been headed here all along.

It had to be done.

She knocked twice on the closed door, then entered at his invitation.

His smile was like a knife blade. Had it only been a few hours since their declarations in the courtyard? How had everything changed so completely?

“There you are.” He stood and took her hands in his. “I’ve been wondering when I would see you this morning.” His eyes clouded. “What is wrong?”

She pulled her hands from his grasp and seated herself in a chair. “Sit, please. I—something has happened. I have something to tell you.”

He lowered himself slowly, never taking his eyes from hers.

In halting phrases and with only as much detail as she must give, she blurted the story to him. Of the rulers of Egyptian Cyprus, both dead on the eve of Rome’s annexation, and of the child raised in obscurity, whom everyone believed dead.

When she was finished, she raised her eyes to meet his gaze, her soul wrung out from the telling.

Simon sat stone-faced, unmoving.

“It is hard to believe, I know—”

“It is not so hard.” The words seemed to crack something apart inside him. “I have always said you had something of a princess about you. Now we know why. Royal blood will always tell.” At this, he looked away.

“Simon, I—”

“I am very happy for you. You deserve all the best that life has to give.” He stood. “And now, my lady, if you would excuse me—”

“Simon, please.” She jumped from her chair and took his arms. “You must know how difficult this is for me.”

He slipped his arms from her grasp and bowed his head. “I do
flatter myself that you find it difficult, my lady. But that does not change the situation.” He held a hand out toward the door, as if to escort her out.

Before either could move, the door flew open.

Cleopatra stood outlined in the light from the courtyard, her face awash with something like shock, mixed with fury.

Lydia took in the woman’s features, five years older than when she had last seen the queen, but still with the arresting charisma born of power and intelligence as much as natural beauty. The years had not changed this, nor had they changed Lydia’s immediate response to Cleopatra’s anger. She reached out for something to steady herself and found nothing.