  As soon as Longinus left the palace with her message, Claudia went back to bed in the hope of finding relaxing sleep after the terrifying dream. But sleep would not come; she was almost afraid to close her eyes for fear the nightmare would return. And even as she lay sleepless, staring wide-eyed at the high ceiling of her bed-chamber, she began to envision a pair of disembodied blood-red hands feeling their way stealthily around and across the intricate plastered figures and medallions of its surface. “Tullia, it’s no use trying any longer,” she called to her maid, as she swung her feet around to stand up. “I just can’t seem to shake off the dream. Maybe if I dress and busy myself at something, I’ll think no more of it. Thank the gods, though, I sent the Procurator that warning.” But as the morning hours went by the dream did not go away; it persisted in all its horrible detail in the forefront of her consciousness, and the harder she tried to dispel it, the more determinedly it stayed with her. “Why, by the Great Mother, little one, am I so disturbed by a dream?” she at length demanded of her maid. “I put no faith in dreams. I must have had thousands, and not one has ever before bothered me. I know they’re nothing but rearrangements, often fanciful and sometimes, like this one, “I don’t doubt it, Mistress. Our ancient scriptures tell of many instances in which God spoke to His prophets in visions, which must have been dreams or the like.” She paused. “And there’s the story of Julius Caesar’s wife, you know.” “Yes,” Claudia’s eyes narrowed. “But if your god wished to save the Galilean’s life, why didn’t he let Pilate have the dream?” Tullia shook her head thoughtfully. “I can’t say. I can’t fathom the mind of God, Mistress.” A suggestion of a smile crossed her face. “Maybe He thought you might have more influence on the Procurator than He Himself could.” Claudia smiled. “Certainly I’m more real to Pilate—and threatening, no doubt—than your Yahweh.” With a quick lifting of her shoulder, she changed her tone. “But why talk of it further? I’m sure my message warned him sufficiently. And I want to forget the dream and the Galilean. This terrific heat is exhausting enough. Still, I do wonder....” She scowled and said no more. The heat grew more intolerable. Longinus did not return, nor did any news come from Antonia. Midday passed, and as she had done the day before, Claudia retreated into the garden and sat on the stone bench before the spouting fountain. But today, unlike yesterday, there were no white puffs of clouds. Instead, from noon on, a thick overcast began to settle upon Jerusalem, so that inside the palace servants lighted lamps, which added, it seemed to Claudia, to the oppressiveness. As she sat staring introspectively at the spray of water, the heat, despite the covering of clouds screening off the sun’s rays, seemed to be mounting as the skies darkened; in the thickening gloom the air grew still; yesterday’s singing, twittering birds had taken cover under the heavy, drooping It was during this foreboding lull, some two hours past midday, that a sedan chair entered the palace grounds, and when the bearers set it down at the doorway, the Tetrarchess of Galilee and Peraea emerged and was admitted to the sumptuous edifice. A moment later, with much bowing and murmured directing, servants conducted her to the wife of the Procurator. But the two had done little more than exchange greetings and sit down together when the winds did come, and with a suddenness and severity that sent them scurrying for the protection of the palace. This time the clouds were not immediately blown away; crash after crash of lightning sundered them, and for a few wild moments they poured a deluge upon the steaming, crowded capital of ancient Israel. “Claudia, I know you wonder why I have come,” Herodias said, when they were settled in one of the inner chambers into which little of the noise of the storm penetrated. “But soon the Feast of the Passover will be ended, and we will be going back to our posts; I’m sure you, at any rate, are unwilling to consider Caesarea home. So we may have little further opportunity to talk together alone, Herod’s engaged at the palace, and Pilate, I presume, will be busy at Antonia.” Claudia nodded. “Yes. Well, you remember once in Rome when you came over to see me and we were talking about Antipas and Longinus, and you wondered why I was interested in the Tetrarch....” Herodias paused, and Claudia, smiling, nodded again. “You may recall, too, I told you that I was interested in what the Tetrarch could become, in the position he might attain, rather than in Antipas as a man....” “Yes, I recall. You said he might become a king like his father.” “I did. Some day he might, I believe I said, with my conniving.” She leaned forward and looked Claudia directly in the eyes. “The time has come,” she said quietly, “for us to begin our determined conniving.” “Our?” Claudia queried, her tone intent. “Yes. What I’m scheming will concern you, and Longinus, as much as it will Antipas and me.” Her brow suddenly furrowed. “You still feel the same way about the centurion, don’t you, as you did when you left Rome to come out here?” “Well, yes, but....” “Oh, I know, Claudia, you must be careful, must guard your tongue. But you needn’t worry about my making indiscreet remarks, you know.” She shrugged. “I haven’t thus far, have I? And I’ve known all along. And now”—she did not wait for Claudia to answer her question—“the time has come for us to strike out for what both of us want. Soon Longinus will be going back to Rome, and more than likely this time he’ll have much to tell the Prefect.” “But, Herodias....” The Tetrarchess laughed and shrugged. “Oh, nobody has told me anything,” she said, “but I do have eyes and ears and an ability to put things together. I know that Senator Piso and Sejanus are more than friends; they’re bound to be business partners, for Sejanus, you may be sure, has his fingers in any enterprise that has been operating with considerable success. I know that Longinus has had unusual freedom for a centurion presumably on active duty and that he has made trips back to Rome, to Antioch, and to many another place that no centurion ordinarily would be called on to visit in the course of duty. And you told me, remember, that he was being sent out to Palestine on a special mission.” She paused, and when Claudia made no comment, she smiled and gestured with outflung hands. “Well, it makes little difference whether he was sent out to watch Pilate or not, and maybe Antipas and me ...” she paused, grinning, “and possibly even you, Claudia. He’ll probably be called back to Rome soon to make some sort of report, even about the operation of the Senator’s glassworks....” “But how would that affect you and Antipas, and Pilate ... and maybe me?” “Longinus might be called back to Rome to report on Pilate’s ... well, shortcomings.” “Even then I fail to understand how....” “This is the way I envision what might easily happen should he be ordered to Rome,” Herodias interrupted. “Longinus certainly must have strong influence with Sejanus, because he’s Senator Piso’s son, for one thing. Should he point out, and with emphasis, Pilate’s failures as an administrator—and certainly he’d have little trouble supporting his charge—he might very likely cause the Prefect to dismiss Pilate as Procurator or move him to another province. And with Pilate disgraced, surely you would be permitted to divorce him.” She smiled and airily lifted her hands. “Then, my dear, you could marry Longinus and return to Rome to live.” “Maybe so. But even then how would that affect you and Antipas?” Herodias leaned toward her hostess, her expression intent. “Suppose Pilate is dismissed, transferred, even, by the gods, beheaded....” Her eyes narrowed. “That would cause you no grief, would it?” But she did not pause for Claudia’s comment. “Then Sejanus, regardless of Pilate’s fate, might extend Antipas’ realm to include Judaea, don’t you see, and elevate him to kingship. And I”—she sat back and smiled felinely—“would be queen.” Quickly the smile vanished. “And I shall never be content, Claudia, until I’m a queen. Why, soon as Tetrarchess I’ll have no higher station than little Salome.” She paused, her expression suddenly questioning. “Did you know that she is marrying Herod Philip?” “Her father?” Claudia exclaimed, aghast. “By all the gods, surely....” “Of course not, my dear.” Herodias laughed. “The other Herod Philip, her father’s half brother and”—she grinned—“my half uncle. He rules the puny tetrarchy over east of us, Batanea and Trachonitis. He’s considerably older than Salome, naturally, but....” “Then he’s Salome’s half great-uncle and half uncle as well as half stepuncle, and ... well....” Claudia broke off with a shrug. “You Herods really never let anything get out of the family, do you?” Then she was serious. “But what about old King Aretas? If he should attack Antipas....” “Certainly he hasn’t attacked yet,” Herodias hastened to reply. “But, Herodias, what if Sejanus, instead of putting Judaea under Antipas and making him king, should send out a new Procurator to succeed Pilate?” The Tetrarchess of Galilee and Peraea was not abashed. “In that case,” she replied without hesitation, “he might even make Longinus Procurator, although I’m sure he—and surely you too, wouldn’t you—would prefer to be assigned a post in some province other than Judaea. But in any event, Claudia, if Longinus should very strongly recommend and urge the transfer of Pilate and the extension of Antipas’ realm to embrace Judaea, then I’m confident it would have great weight with Sejanus. That’s why I came to see you, Claudia, the principal reason, I mean. I hope you’ll suggest such a course to Longinus. It’s a way by which you and Longinus and I—I’m not considering Pilate and indolent old Antipas—can attain what all three of us want most.” She leaned forward again, and her expression betrayed a malevolent cunning. “Claudia, Longinus would have good reason to advise Sejanus to withdraw Pilate from Judaea. Pilate from his first days out here has failed to get along with the Jews, from the High Priest on down. And now, today, the suddenly bitter hostility of the followers of this Galilean fellow whom he tried this morning....” “Galilean fellow?” Claudia’s expression was suddenly grave. “Who...?” “Maybe you haven’t heard of him. He has a large following devotedly attached to him, so large that the Temple leaders are both jealous and fearful of him. They brought him before Pilate this morning, and the Procurator, wishing to evade responsibility”—her tone was sarcastic—“sent him to Antipas for trial, since the fellow was a Galilean, from the village of Nazareth, I believe. But I learned about it in time to warn Antipas to have nothing to do with the fellow....” She paused, and the bitter lines around her mouth deepened in a scowl. “He’s never forgotten that Wilderness fanatic at Machaerus. So he sent the Galilean back to Pilate.” She smiled. “Whatever the Procurator does with him, or has done, “Then you don’t know whether Pilate has tried the man?” Claudia tried to conceal her anxiety. “No. I only know that Antipas didn’t fall into Pilate’s trap.” ... Thank the Bountiful Mother I sent Pilate the message.... “You were always a clever one, Herodias. Antipas is fortunate.” But she did not elaborate and quickly changed the subject. With the same suddenness that it had begun, like the opening and closing of a great door, the storm ended, and the sun shone down through skies sparkling and refreshed. “I must be going,” said Herodias. “I’ve much to do before we start back to Tiberias. My dear”—she laid her hand affectionately on Claudia’s arm and stood up—“do come to visit us again. And won’t you talk with Longinus about this? You’ll be seeing him, of course, perhaps tonight?” “Perhaps.” But Claudia’s smile was thin. Herodias’ visit and the dissipation of the storm clouds had done nothing to dispel Claudia’s misgivings; the news brought by the Tetrarchess had, in fact, served to deepen her foreboding. Why hadn’t Pilate acknowledged receiving her message, if indeed he had received it? Suddenly the desperate notion possessed her that the Procurator had failed to get her hurriedly scribbled warning. And why, if he had seen it, had he failed to reassure her that Jesus would not be condemned? What, by the gods, had Pilate done with him? She summoned her maid. “You must go up to Antonia and discover what’s happened to the Galilean, Tullia,” she said. “Until I hear, I shall have no peace.” She hesitated, brow furrowed. “No, wait. I’ll go myself. Call the sedan-chair bearers.” |
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