Thorns of Glory, page 29
* * *
Hamira
“Where are my friends?” I demanded of Princess Salomé. I’d stopped forcefully amid the gaudy hallway, illuminated by dozens—no, hundreds—of oil lamps that would have required hours per day for dozens of servants to keep trimmed and filled.
Salomé turned, pretending to be surprised that I’d let her walk on ahead by herself. A coterie of muscular men in drab white tunics, very different from Jerusalem’s other soldiers, glanced from the princess to me, then back, wondering if they ought to employ their short, curved swords to encourage me to greater “obedience.” For the time being, Salomé issued no such order.
“My dear child,” she replied, her tone heavy with honey, “you needn’t worry your mind about your friends another moment.” Her oblique emphasis on friends suggested she’d have preferred to use a different word to define my relationship with people she considered peasants and beggars. “I promise they are all here, being accorded the same hospitality for which my uncle, the King of Galilee, is deservedly renowned. They will join us soon, I promise. Until then, are you not intrigued by the prospect of meeting my mother, Queen Herodias? Why, I might, if we are coy, even convince my uncle’s secretaries to grant us an audience with His Majesty, presuming the dark mood that has beset his mind since his arrival in Jerusalem has lifted.”
“I want to see them now,” I said resolutely.
“The King and Queen? Understandable—”
“No,” I said, mimicking her demureness. She knew perfectly well who I’d meant. “My friends.”
Smiling with all the affection she could muster, Salomé made several broad strides back in my direction, taking my hands into her own. Her armed guards did not remove their knuckles from the hilts of their swords. Who were these myrmidons? These pale-cloaked men had marched astride our palanquin all the way to the palace, and still they refused to let the Princess out of their sight.
“I’m afraid I must insist, Hamira of the Jaredites, that we first meet, at the very least, my lovely mother. You’ll have ample time to reunite with your associates. We’ll invite them to the pre-seder in the dining hall. Until then, I beg you to trust me. I never had a sister. At least, none whom I was aware of. And I am most anxious to discover if you, Hamira, are possibly a long-lost sibling—perhaps a cousin?—someone whom my mother might have mentioned as my mind wandered elsewhere. I pray, indulge me. The indulgence will be brief. Before the sun sets, I promise to reunite you with your friends from the Hippodrome.”
She uttered the noun friends respectfully for the first time.
My wrath simmered. “First, explain why you had them arrested, and with such brute force. Your Temple soldiers struck Joshua to the ground!”
“For their protection,” she said tiredly, frustrated that I had not deduced this for myself. “The young man’s name is Yeshua, you say? Explanation enough! If the people had learned this, they might have mistaken him for another man—a somewhat older man—who hails from Galilee. This Yeshua has caused a considerable uproar in the capital during Passover week. The crowd at the amphitheater might have torn your friend to shreds! ‘Arrest?’ No, no, Hamira. It’s more correct to say that guards may have saved his life!”
My voice remained stern and even, but I repeated, “They knocked him to the ground.”
She shrugged. “He must have resisted. What hot-blooded young bull would not have? Gifts bestowed are so often misunderstood. I’ll wager my lapis brooch that he is, at this very moment, kneeling in gratitude at the feet of the Captain of the Temple Guard. Your friend might have been plucked from a circumstance that could easily have devolved into bloodshed, especially for a stranger whose name matches that of the false Messiah. These are unsettled times, sweet Hamira. It’s the very reason my father broods like an adolescent, fearing this Yeshua of Galilee could upset the established order.”
“I met him,” I confessed, though I immediately regretted saying it. Hesitantly, I added, “I don’t think He means to disrupt local politics.”
She faked a surprised gasp. “Then, it’s true. You are part of His inner circle! Hamira the Jaredite, are you His disciple?”
I shook my head, a little confused. “No. Not really. Not at all.”
“Fascinating,” said Salomé. “Do you mean to say you are one of the few who have not been seduced by His wiles? I am impressed. What about your friends?”
“I—” Something told me to answer carefully. “I cannot say. They respect Him, but whether they are His disciples . . .”
“Are you welcome back into His presence?”
I shrugged. “I suppose. I can’t imagine anyone among His disciples considers us a threat.”
She grinned, oddly satisfied by this answer. Then she abruptly changed the subject. “What is He like, this prophet from Nazareth? Is He handsome?”
“I don’t . . . I hadn’t . . . It never . . .”
“Hamira,” Salomé scolded, winking unashamedly. “You’re a woman, aren’t you? And you cannot say if this ‘Messiah’ who has captivated thousands, is alluring or attractive?”
“I did not think . . . It never crossed my thoughts to judge Him in this way.”
She gushed on. “I have imagined He possesses a physique like Alexander and facial lines like Mark Antony. Perhaps like David of old. Surely His appearance is not of the same ilk as His ‘Elias’—John the Baptizer—whose plainness was repugnant. It is rumored that several of the costliest harlots in Judea have abandoned their professions to follow this Yeshua of Nazareth, much to the chagrin of their patrons.”
I blushed, glancing at our eavesdropping male attendants.
Salomé noticed my discomfort. “Don’t worry about them. They are eunuchs, one and all. Not at my insistence, I assure you. My uncle personally appointed each member of my guard.” She sighed. “No matter. They are not all so odious to gaze upon, even if they are no longer men.”
I was nonplussed. Most males I knew would have struck a woman for such an insult. Our six guards hardly reacted. Even Akish, when he served as king of the Jaredites, had not insisted that royal bodyguards for his wives and daughters be eunuchs. It wasn’t necessary. He had a deeply embedded network of spies to report any untoward behavior. Truthfully, I think he encouraged such gossip as a ready excuse to torture and slay rising adversaries who paid the females of his court so much as an unseemly glance, so that his brutality might serve as an example.
Salomé tugged on my right hand. “Come. You must meet my mother.”
I resisted but not earnestly. “Where are my friends being kept?”
She faced me again, eyes rolling, patience strained. “Hamira, Hamira, Hamira. I insist you put this matter out of your mind. If you only knew the delicious hullabaloo your presence is about to arouse. I am dying—simply dying—to see the look on my mother’s face when she meets you.”
“Because she’ll think . . . I am the product of a scandal?”
“Because I have no idea how she’ll react! Surely you can also discern our physical similarities. I cannot believe, Hamira, that you aren’t the least bit curious to see her expression.”
I shook my head. “Not the least bit.”
She paused and half frowned, wondering, for an instant, if she’d lost an argument, perhaps for the first time in her life. But Salomé was relentless.
She altered her tactics and pleaded, “Humor me, Hamira. Just this once. It will take but a few moments! Her reaction will be luxurious! Afterward, I will grant your fondest wish—anything—even to the half of my kingdom.”
It was facetiousness. She didn’t have any kingdoms, or half-kingdoms, to mete out. I decided to modify the terms of her promise. “What I want, Princess Salomé, is to be reunited—and then released—with my friends. Immediately.”
She feigned amusement. “Is that all?” She squared her shoulders and cleared her throat. “Hamira of the Jaredites, you have my most solemn oath—”
I wasn’t finished. “And also to be reunited and released with the woman named Sabrina and her infant son, Gid.”
For the first time, my words caught her off guard. Her eyebrow hiked, and her shoulders slumped.
“You know where they are, don’t you?” I said. “Sabrina and Gid are Joshua’s kin. His aunt and cousin.”
“Kin? I wasn’t aware of that.”
I held my ground, awaiting a reply.
“My, my.” Salomé pretended to brush some non-existent particles from her gown. “You are privy to the latest court gossip, aren’t you, Hamira?” She pulled me aside, just out of hearing of her bodyguards, implying our topic of discussion was quite conspiratorial. “All right. I promise.” She glanced around to ensure our conversation was, indeed, confidential. “Normally, it would not be in my power to grant such favors, particularly through traditional channels. But I am not a person who typically adheres to ‘traditional’ channels.”
“So they are here?”
“Yes,” she admitted, urging me to lower my voice. “Yes, yes, I have heard tell of such names. The King is presently holding a woman and her infant son, and I believe those are their names, though I heard them spoken only once. Your demands are not easily granted, but I am confident I can grant them. I ask only that you indulge my whims for a brief moment—an hour at most—”
“An hour?”
“An hour,” she stressed. “Then I will become your humblest servant, Hamira, and together we will accomplish these dastardly deeds you describe. I swear it by the tablets of Moses. By the Holy of Holies. May God strike me as dead as my worm-ridden grandfather if I fail to fulfill any particle of this oath.”
I studied her. Her oath definitely sounded serious. Even blasphemous.
I made a decision I might not have made if my mind had been clearer, more rational. I decided to trust her. Whatever insipid game she was set on playing, I agreed to play it by offering a singular nod, which induced in Salomé a shriek of delight, clapping her hands rapidly several times, then yanking me toward her mother’s private chambers.
* * *
“The Queen is not feeling well,” said an elderly clerk in the antechamber.
“I’m about to change that,” replied Salomé.
She gave him no time to utter another syllable. We pushed past the tall exterior doors. As I glanced back, the clerk was shaking his head in futility, nose again buried in whatever business had occupied his attention before our arrival. The petitioner was, after all, Princess Salomé. He’d plainly decided that no one could hold him remotely responsible for failing to stop His Majesty’s impetuous daughter. She abandoned her pale-robed eunuch bodyguards in the antechamber with the elderly clerk.
We entered what I presumed was the Queen’s private throne room, the space where she gave audience to visitors whose business might have been separate from the King, or perhaps those who felt it wise to gain the Queen’s favor before approaching her husband. It was empty at present. No one sat upon the plush throne with velvet cushions and armrests inlaid with emeralds.
Salomé looked toward a door that led to additional rooms, undoubtedly the Queen’s sleeping quarters.
“Wait here,” she instructed, yanking slightly downward on my sleeves as if to embed my feet into this exact spot of mosaic tiles.
She called out for her mother as she disappeared behind a gamut of curtains that muffled her voice. The titles “Your Majesty!” “Queen Mother!” and “Dearest Herodias!” trilled from her larynx, the echo indicating a labyrinth of halls more complex than I might have expected.
I took in the throne room, wrinkling my nose at the distinctive odors of must and mildew that even exotic spices and incense could not disguise. This palace had obviously fallen into general disuse. Again, dozens of oil lamps flickered and guttered, including a garish candelabra overhead that reminded me of a multi-legged sea creature I’d once seen in the fish markets of Morōn. Akish had asked his chef to procure and prepare it, afterward nearly executing both his chef and the poor fisherman who’d sold it to him. Instead, he’d decided a day of torture and imprisonment was a sufficient punishment. My sisters and I had been too shy to admit that we’d rather enjoyed the dish. I think my mother liked it too, but in those days, Akish was courting Mizerath. Asherah usually managed to avoid royal banquets, but the king had insisted she sample this “delicacy.” Mizerath betrayed a smile as Asherah chewed the meat, but my mother would not contradict Akish’s opinion, at least in those days. She’d lambasted the chef more furiously than my father did. I think she was the one who ordered the palace guards to arrest the fisherman. My conviction that Mother was a spineless sycophant was confirmed when I saw her filch a second bite.
I noted that servants of the Queen had made some effort to clean away the cobwebs from the candelabra, but a few strands still lingered. Paint from the decorative wall murals was chipping badly. I suspected it’d been a generation since the Hasmonaean Palace, as it was called, had seen its prime. I shivered once, not from any chill but from a sense that this dynasty of Jewish rulers was in the throes of enduring a long, excruciating public humiliation at the hands of Rome’s emperor. I knew something about palace politics, and the memory of such games elicited dismal memories.
A moment later, the oily, yellowish lamplight reflected off the faces of Salomé and her mother, Herodias. The Queen did not appear elderly. She was near to my mother’s age, though not as vigorous. It seemed the sunlight rarely touched her pale skin. She was skinnier than any queen I’d known, though my experience was admittedly limited. Just Asherah, Mizerath, and the wives of Omer. Something about her was distinctively gaunt and frail, as if she might break at the slightest impact. Her dark hair had a reddish tinge, recolored in a manner similar to the chemically whitened, then blue-frosted bangs of her daughter. At present, her locks were pinned high on her scalp, as if she was, indeed, feeling unwell and had been preparing to retire even prior to the setting of the sun.
She inspected me, mouth fixed in a small, astonished circle. Much of her make-up had been removed, so it was harder to contrast her features with Salomé’s. My impression was that similarities between mother and daughter were scant. Not that Herodias was unattractive, but her features were sharper. She was a more hardened presentment of the young princess.
I tolerated her inspection of me, even as she daintily touched my nose and drew ovals around my eyes with her long, red fingernail. For a prolonged span, she held her breath, at last letting the air escape in a gust.
Salomé squealed gleefully as her suspicions, and mine, were confirmed. Despite the odds, the improbability—the lunacy of it—the Princess and I might have been twins.
Salomé could not resist making a suggestive inference. “Are you sure I was not, that night, the only babe who crawled from your womb?”
“It was daytime,” Herodias corrected testily. “And I’d have assuredly known if I’d birthed identical twins.”
“Then,” Salomé said lewdly, “perhaps there was another liaison. One that has not yet reached the ears of the citizenry.”
I winced at the impropriety, especially between a mother and her daughter.
Herodias snapped, “Curse your impertinence, Salomé! She is not the product of any indecency of mine.”
“Not yours, I might be willing to concede, Mother,” Salomé persisted. “Perhaps Phasaelis? Your husband’s first wife feigned to be such a helpless victim of her own circumstances. If I had a gold shekel for each of her infidelities—”
“—you would be a poor woman,” finished Herodias bluntly. “Phasaelis lacked the wit to conceal such scandals, particularly in the presence of earnest ears like yours.”
Neither woman showed signs of offense, as if this banter was commonplace.
Herodias focused on me with greater scrutiny. “What is your name, girl?”
Salomé answered for me. “It is Hamira.”
“She has her own tongue,” snipped Herodias. “Let her use it. Where are you from?”
“A land called Morōn,” I said nervously. “It’s quite far away.”
“I’ve heard of many lands,” remarked the Queen. “Even lands ‘quite far away,’ but not this . . . Morōn.”
“To the east.” I might have picked any cardinal direction. “The kingdom is quite small.”
“Why are you in Jerusalem?”
“I was—” I stuttered, surprised that I hadn’t yet devised a response to such a likely question. My hand went to the satchel on my belt that contained the Finder. Strangely, I’d almost forgotten it was there. “I was brought here by caravanners. From Persia.”
I’d heard this locale only once in a passing conversation. I wasn’t even certain if this land was to the east. To my relief, the answer satisfied her, for the moment. I credited the Finder for my inspired reply.
“Are you a slave?” Herodias asked.
“No,” I said crisply. “I am no one’s slave.”
“Espoused?”
“No.”
“Children?”
“No,” I repeated with growing fluster.
Salomé asked shrewdly, “Why would a Persian caravanner agree to bring you to Jerusalem? And why would you desire to come?”
“A favor,” I said. “Curiosity. For the adventure.”
“‘Adventure’,” repeated Herodias. “Adventures are for young men.”
“I also have an appetite for it.” I was feeling overly confident. “Our eventual destination is Rome.”
Herodias added, “It’s my understanding that your caravan was delayed after your party heard rumors of a Jewish Messiah. Was this also part of your . . . appetite for adventure?”
I shifted my weight. “Yes.”
They scrutinized me like a specimen of augury or science. Finally, the Queen made a small laugh. Marveling, she raised her arms and let them slap against her sides.
