Thorns of Glory, page 21
I said nothing at first, shocked, wondering if the Finder had kept its promise. Or had it brazenly betrayed me? My safety had been assured. My invisibility. It had also said important events awaited me. But how could my enemy—Kentor, the henchmen of my treacherous brother, Nimrah—be associated with important events to aid my success?
Kentor’s expression was . . . difficult to interpret. He’d once tried to woo my affections. I’d admitted this to Joshua, but it had only created tension between us. I perceived no affection from Kentor now. But neither was his expression one of indignation, which is the emotion I’d have expected since he’d surely been tasked with apprehending me and recovering the Finder. His eyes were narrowed in puzzlement, as if seeing me for the first time.
Was this all part of the Finder’s plan? Was I still encompassed by a bubble of anonymity? Might I simply step past him without—?
He seized my arm. I squealed. Perhaps it was more like a rasp. As I faced him again, his expression was the same. Bewilderment and . . . stupefaction?
“Uncanny,” he said almost under his breath. “It is uncanny. What devilry is this?”
My face twisted with incredulity. By heaven’s golden palace, what was Kentor talking about?
I tried to pull away. “Let me go, Kentor. If you ever cared for me, then let me—”
My plea had no effect. He continued to ramble incoherently. “I thought you were her. Or that she was you. But it is neither.”
“You’re speaking nonsense! Let me go!”
“I’ve done that twice,” he reminded me. “If your brother knew about that, I’d already be dead. Not this time, Hamira. She wants to meet you. She is waiting for you. There.”
He pointed toward the carriage—the palanquin I’d noticed before—entering the Hippodrome. The same carriage whose interior was darkened by blue-and-white curtains and where a pale aristocratic hand rested on the sill.
“She who?” I demanded.
“Her Majesty, the Princess,” Kentor replied.
My brows shot up. It was an appellation betimes applied to me. Kentor himself had applied it to me. “What princess? Where is Nimrah? Where are Gothan and Jugal? Where are Sabrina and the babe?”
“You must meet her. You must see her.” He was dragging me now. Dragging me toward the carriage.
I implored him again. “Let me go, Kentor! Why are you doing this? You’re hurting me! Release my arm!”
I considered using my other hand to claw at his eyes, but it was gripping the satchel that contained the Finder. The Oracle felt heavier than I remembered. Perhaps I should have opened the satchel and spilled it onto the ground. I should have let the black orb roll carelessly amongst the hundreds of moving legs and sandals. Surely someone would have thought it a curiosity worth stealing. That might have distracted Kentor long enough to let me escape. But then how would I find Joshua’s relatives?
We continued toward the palanquin. He’d called the occupant a princess. A princess? In Jerusalem? This land was under the boot of a conqueror, an emperor-god in much the same cast as my father. This tyrant—this Tiberius—resided on some faraway island across the sea. There were no princesses here. It made no sense!
Kentor’s grip was inescapable. The palanquin loomed closer. The manicured hand was still visible but no longer flaccid. Glittering red fingernails gripped the window’s edge with intensity.
I recognized someone else a dozen yards to the right. Gothan! Gentle Gothan. He’d often been my secret advocate. He’d smuggled food to me when my brother would have preferred I starve. Would he come to my aid now? Unlikely. He’d shown sympathy only when it was safe. Otherwise, he was like the rest: a groveling sycophant. His expression was strange, like Kentor’s. I saw Jugal to his left. Jugal the sadist. Jugal, who took pleasure in the pain of every creature other than himself. His face displayed the same awe as Gothan’s and Kentor’s. What was wrong with them?
What is happening? I asked inwardly.
Trust, the Finder replied.
The only member of Nimrah’s gang I did not see was Nimrah. Normally, my brother’s ashen face stood out starkly, even in a crowd. I also did not see Sabrina or her infant.
Gothan and Jubal just stood there, neither closing in to help Kentor nor blending into the throng. Like Nimrah’s henchmen, strangers also stared at me. Was I mistaken, or were there more gawkers than there had been before? Some might have been Nimrah’s recruits, but that didn’t explain the abundance of gawking women and children.
I had a peculiar thought: Might this princess be Asherah, my mother? Not likely. Kentor would never have called Asherah a princess. She was his Queen. Against my better judgment, I was exceedingly curious to learn the identity of the carriage’s occupant.
A porter lifted a latch and opened the door. Darkness fled the interior but not at the far corner. With its curtains drawn, I could not quite perceive this person’s face.
I squinted. It was not my mother. It was a girl. Or rather, a woman, close to my same age. She wore a gown, cerulean and white, much like the curtains. On her neck was a golden choker wide as my wrist, triangular, pressing her throat as if designed to improve her posture. Underneath it was a lavaliere that might have been part of her gown, festooned in blue gems—lapis and aquamarine, perhaps also opals and pearls. She wore brooches, bracelets, carcanets, and pendants. The only part of her that did not gleam with jewelry was the hand that had lain on the window frame. The opposite hand, however, flaunted rings, one with a cut stone that reflected sunlight in a way that made me think of the stones that had illuminated the barges of my ancestors. A gust of perfume wafted over me, too strong to be pleasant. All these fineries offended my sensibilities. They were garish and tawdry.
I refocused on her face. Smooth complexion, nearly flawless. A silk veil, white and gossamer, shrouded her head, leaving her raven-black hair visible. Some strands were dyed blue, like her dress. Even the ends of her eyelashes shone with globular points, like bluish tears. Her lips were scarlet, as was the rouge on her cheeks. Dark mascara curled into long flourishes on either side of her eyes. I looked past the cosmetics, taking in the face itself. Something about it sent a shiver up my spine and plucked a dissonant chord.
“Come in, girl,” she invited, though her tone did not seem inviting. It had a sibilant edge, condescending—not necessarily intending to offend but reeking of privilege and ignoble authority.
I hesitated, despite Kentor’s efforts to lift me inside.
The princess urged me to join her with a nervous flick of her red fingernails. She pressed against the opposite side of the carriage, as if afraid someone in the crowd might identify her. I sensed she wanted to face the curtain, but she couldn’t do it. She seemed no less mesmerized by my appearance than I was by hers. Was that alarm in her eyes? Strange. I contemplated fully resisting Kentor in his efforts to force me into the interior. In the end, I made no resistance whatsoever.
“Sit here.” She patted the cushioned bench beside her and glowered at Kentor. “Servant, close the carriage.”
Her voice had bite. Normally, Kentor would have bristled with offense. He took orders from no one except my brother. However, he instantly obeyed. I sat on the bench as directed. The door latched.
Outside, a scuffle erupted.
“Hamira!” It was Joshua’s voice!
I yanked the curtain aside and caught sight of Joshua and Melody. They’d seen me enter the carriage. The congestion of pilgrims prevented them from reaching me. My heart lurched as the carriage rose up. For an eyeblink I lost sight of Josh and Melody. Then I realized it wasn’t the crowd that stopped them. Well, not the pilgrims. Jewish guards—officers of the Temple police. I flinched as Joshua was struck.
I implored my bejeweled companion, “Make them stop! That man and woman—they are my friends!”
“Friends?” she repeated as if the word was foreign and unfamiliar. She called sternly to someone outside. “Have them brought to the palace. Those two—the plebs. The young man and woman.”
I looked at her askance. The word she’d used was the same as calling them vulgarians, rabble, or the great unwashed—a term only royalty would bestow upon others. My great-grandfather, also a king, would have despised such a term. Nearly all his fathers as far back as Jared had striven to condemn the tendencies of humankind to form into classes. Of course, my father, Akish, vigorously encouraged it, but his efforts were, for the most part, undone by the great war. The term grated on me like a howler’s morning screech.
My eyes threw daggers. “What are you going to do to them? Why am I here? Who are you?”
She was so close I could have torn her and her pretty fripperies to shreds. How foolish to have put us in here alone!
She answered not a word but studied me with enchantment. What was this insanity? Kentor, Gothan, Jubal—and now her!
My eyes further adjusted to the shadows; my gaze reaffixed on hers. The indignation percolating inside me cooled. Indifferent to my tone, she unpinned a carcanet and circlet behind her head; then she artfully unwound her veil and headdress. If she glanced away, it was only to place her jewelry on the bench that faced us on the opposite side.
The ruckus in the courtyard hushed. I heard the inhale and exhale of my own breaths. The reality of the situation settled over me only by degrees. Her words at first were inscrutable.
“So there is truth to it—the sayings of your companions.” She shook her head and made a dismissive sound. “Another land. Another world. I cannot endorse such poppycock, but I am inclined toward the actuality of specters, revenants, ghosts, and doppelgangers, for I have seen them. Yes, yes, I have! In the night hours. In places where the dead are entombed. And once in the echoing, fissured halls of Machaerus.” She shuddered at some memory but shook it off. “No, it is more likely that one of the oft-inebriated swine who call themselves my uncles lay with a harlot. Or perhaps my mother and aunt—a person who, as you must already know, are one and the same—lay with yet another of my grandfather’s offspring: a son, nephew, cousin, or some other baseborn of similar ilk. This would hardly compound the calumny that already tarnishes Herodias’s public reputation. It would only expand the number of her known liaisons from two to three. Oh, if they knew what I know! What is your name, maiden?”
“H-Hamira.”
“Hamira?” She pursed her lips as if the name tasted irregular. “That adds no enlightenment at all. Persian? Egyptian?”
I opened and closed my mouth but made no reply.
“Never mind,” she said as if scolding herself to think I was suitably educated to answer anyway. “What is your age?”
I shut my eyes tightly, attempting to clear my head. “Eighteen. I don’t understand any of—”
“Not possible,” she interrupted. Then she recalculated. “Not impossible, I suppose. But unlikely. I will be nineteen at summer’s end. A nine-month separation would make you seventeen or nineteen, subverting my theory. Are you certain, dear girl, that you even know your age with confidence?”
My teeth clamped. I was hyperventilating. Each of her sentences was interlaced with lewdness, inferring that I was the product of debauchery.
I said fiercely, “My mother is Queen—” My pride evaporated. Was I really about to invoke my mother’s pedigree? Her queenship was illegitimate.
“Queen who?” the Princess pressed. “What is her name?”
“Asherah,” I said reluctantly.
“Ashteroth? Goddess of the Philistines?”
“Asherah,” I corrected.
She shrugged. “An optional pronunciation. Canaanite, I think. Still, a predictable name for a harlot.”
I balled my fists, ready to add purple bruises to those red lips and rouged cheeks. I seethed, “My great-grandfather is a mighty king.”
If she took any notice of my flaring temper, she ignored it. “Great-grandfather. What a curious reply! Not your grandfather?”
My mind was flustered. “No.”
A smile broadened on her face. Sincere. Or convincingly performed. She blossomed with rapture as she seized both of my hands in hers. “Don’t be distressed, dear girl! I mean you no harm. I never did! Quite the contrary. We are sisters! Can’t you see it?”
Of course I could see it. It had settled over me by degrees. The similarity was more striking than Kentor, Gothan, Jugal, or Nimrah could ever have convincingly illustrated. Men are generally not attuned to such details, especially if a female’s visage is obscured by cosmetics and jewelry. As I sat nose-to-nose with this dark-haired damsel with light-brown eyes, the symmetry of our features shook me to the center. Acid stung my throat, and my hands shivered in hers.
Under my breath, I inquired again, “Who are you?”
She laughed merrily. “Oh, come now! Do you think I might believe you don’t already know? All right, I’ll play along.” She cleared her throat and said formally, “I am the daughter of Herodias and Herod Philip. Or rather, of his brother, King Herod Antipas. Technically, I suppose, Antipas is my uncle, but my mother would have me declare it otherwise. Or bite my tongue. It can be so bewildering—all the facets of this ribald web of controversies. So say it! Come now, Hamira. Say my name.”
My stare was so blank that a part of her must have been convinced I honestly didn’t know. She grabbed my face. Not harshly—daintily—if such a word can define such an intrusive gesture. She gently moved my jaw up and down. I uttered nothing as she made me pantomime three distinct syllables.
“Salomé,” she pronounced.
I drew back to shake her off.
She giggled again and repeated her name, now adding all authoritative titles. “I am Salomé, Princess of the House of King Herod, Tetrarch of Perea and Galilee.”
Notes to Chapter 7:
Although Rome was the undisputed ruler of Judea during the time of Christ, identifying the individuals who actually governed the province is more challenging.
The Roman conqueror Pompey (Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus) took advantage of a civil war in Judea between two brothers—Aristobulus II and Hyrcanus II—and seized an opportunity to add territory to the Empire. Pompey attacked Jerusalem and breached the Temple environs in 63 b.c., killing, according to the Jewish historian Josephus, twelve thousand Jews in the assault. Pompey is said to have refrained from sacking the Temple of its valuable artifacts and allowing the holy precincts to be repaired and repurified so that sacred offerings could recommence. Pompey installed the less belligerent of the two brothers, Hyrcanus II, in the office of High Priest and imprisoned the warlike brother, Aristobulus II. Josephus writes:
Now the occasions of this misery which came upon Jerusalem, were Hyrcanus and Aristobulus; by raising a sedition one against the other. For now we lost our liberty; and became subject to the Romans . . . Moreover, the Romans exacted of us, in a little time, above ten thousand talents. And the royal authority, which was a dignity formerly bestowed on those that were High Priests, by the right of their family, became the property of private men. (Josephus, Antiquities of the Jews, Book XIV 4.5, https://penelope.uchicago.edu/josephus/ant-14.html)
A few decades before Pompey’s invasion, Judea had conquered the small kingdom of Idumea (Edom) and forced the denizens to be circumcised and convert to Judaism. By the time Rome conquered Jerusalem, a number of Idumeans had ascended to lofty positions in the Jewish court. Such was the case with Antipater the Edomite, who served as a top advisor to the seemingly gullible Hyrcanus II, filling the king’s ears with rumors and intrigues that inflamed divisions among the Jews. Antipater’s guileful skills gained him favor with Rome. In the aftermath of Jerusalem’s defeat at the hands of Pompey, and in a remarkable twist of irony, Antipater the Edomite was appointed by Julius Caesar as procurator of Judea, giving him preeminence over his former boss, Hyrcanus II.
Antipater had two sons—Phasael and Herod—the former of whom he appointed governor of Jerusalem and the latter governor of Galilee. Not long thereafter, a nephew of Hyrcanus II named Antigonus took the throne from his uncle in a coup supported by the neighboring kingdom of Parthia. Herod fled to Rome and pleaded with the Emperor to reinstate his father as the rightful ruler in Judea. The Senate, however, recognizing Hyrcanus’s anemic leadership skills, voted instead to install the energetic young Herod as the ruler of Judea. He was officially given the title “King of the Jews,” although it was fully understood that he would serve as a vassal of Rome and represent his patron’s interests.
Thus began the rule of the infamous King Herod, founder of the Herodian dynasty, which lasted a little longer than a century, though it governed Jerusalem and Judea only until about a.d. 6, or ten years after King Herod’s death. The last monarch of the Herodian dynasty was Herod Agrippa II (son of the better-known Herod Agrippa, who confronted the Apostle Paul at Caesarea). Agrippa II ruled in Northern Levant (modern Lebanon) until approximately a.d. 92.
The founder of the Herodian dynasty, King Herod, still enjoys the appellation “the Great,” first bestowed by western historians, although it is thought that he was generally reviled by his own citizens. This was the result of his Idumean heritage, his lax commitment to Jewish law, and in particular, his placement of a golden eagle statue—the symbol of Rome—over the entrance of the Temple. On the other hand, his legacy included ambitious and colossal building projects such as expanding the Jewish Temple, constructing Jerusalem’s aqueducts, and pouring the cement harbor at Caesarea that is still in use today.
Most scholars agree that Herod was wildly paranoid and eager to commit any crime that advanced his ends. He is said to have employed over two thousand bodyguards and established an intricate network of secret police. He is accused of murdering one of his wives, three of his children, a mother-in-law, several brothers-in-law, and countless real and perceived political and ecclesiastical opponents. Such atrocities are further supplemented by the infamous account of his massacre of the infants in the village of Bethlehem as he sought to kill the prophesied Messiah. Scholar and biographer Stewart Perowne concedes that this event reported in the New Testament was “wholly in keeping with all that we know of him” (Stewart Perowne, The Life and Times of Herod the Great, [Nashville: Abingdon, 1956], 172).
