Languidly the Princess Herodias of the Maccabean branch of the Herod dynasty lay back in the warm, scented water so that only her head, framed in black hair held dry by a finely woven silk net, was exposed. “More hot water, Neaera,” she commanded. “But be careful. I don’t want to look cooked for the Tetrarch.” Quickly the slave maid turned the tap, and steaming water gushed from the ornate eagle’s-head faucet. “That’s enough!” shouted Herodias after a minute. “By the gods, shut it off!” She sat upright in the tiled tub, and the water ran down from her neck and shoulders, leaving little islands of suds clinging to her glistening white body. “Now hand me the mirror.” She extended a dripping arm and accepted the polished bronze. For a long moment she studied her image. “Neaera, tell me truthfully, am I showing my age too dreadfully?” “But, Mistress, you are not old,” the maid protested. “You’re a flatterer, Neaera. Salome, remember, is fourteen.” “But you were married very young, Mistress.” “And I was married a long time ago, too.” She peered again into the mirror. “Look. Already I can see tiny crow’s-foot lines around my eyes.” “But unguents and a little eye shadowing....” “More flattery.” Herodias shook a wet finger at the young woman’s nose. “But I love it; so don’t ever stop. But now”—she grasped the sides of the tub—“help me out. I mustn’t lie in this hot water any longer, or I’ll be as pink as a roast by the time the Tetrarch comes.” She grasped the maid’s arm to steady herself as she stepped from the tub to the tufted mat, and Neaera began to rub her “You haven’t lost it at all, Mistress,” the maid assured her, as she picked up a filmy undergarment from the bench. “It’s still youthful and still beautiful.” Herodias braced herself as the girl bent low to assist her into the black silk garment. Neaera leaned back and studied the older woman again. “You have the figure of a young woman, indeed, Mistress,” she said, “though fully matured and....” “And what, Neaera? What were you going to say?” “Well, Mistress, a figure to me more beautiful because of maturity, and more interesting.” “And more alluring, more seductive, maybe?” Her smile was lightly wanton. “To the Tetrarch, perhaps? But the Herods, Neaera, and old Tiberius, too, I hear, like their women very young.” Her expression sobered. “I’m almost afraid he’ll be having eyes for Salome rather than for me. The child has matured remarkably, you know, in the last year.” “I should think, though, Mistress, that the Tetrarch....” A sharp knocking on the door interrupted her. “By the gods, Neaera, it must be the Tetrarch, and I’m not ready. Tell Strabo to seat him in the peristylium and pour him wine and say that I shall be ready soon.” But the visitor was not the Tetrarch of Galilee. Strabo announced that the Emperor’s stepdaughter was in the atrium. “Claudia! How wonderful! Show her into the solarium, and tell her I’ll join her in a minute. Neaera, hurry and fetch me my robe. We can sit and talk while you do my hair.” “I can’t stay for more than a few minutes,” the Emperor’s stepdaughter announced when, a moment later, Herodias greeted her in the solarium. “Longinus is going to take me out to the chariot “Yes, you’re right, but there’s no hurry, Claudia. I can finish quickly. And if I’m not ready when he comes, he can wait.” “So,” Claudia laughed, “you already have the Tetrarch so entranced that he will wait patiently while you dress.” “Not patiently, perhaps, but he’ll wait ... without protesting.” “Then it won’t be long before you’ll be marrying him and leaving for Palestine.” She said it teasingly, but immediately her expression changed to reveal concern. “But, Herodias, when you do, what will his present wife say; how will she take it? And his subjects in Galilee? Doesn’t the Jewish religion forbid a man’s having more than one living wife?” “The daughter of King Aretas will resent his bringing another wife to Tiberias, no doubt”—Herodias smiled coyly—“if I do marry him. And as for the religion of the Jews, well, my dear, you must know that neither Antipas nor I follow its tenets too closely.” “Of course. But I wasn’t thinking of you or the Tetrarch as much as I was of how his present wife would react. And the people of Galilee, too, how will they feel about his having two living wives, one of whom is his niece. Won’t it offend them?” “Yes, if we marry, it will offend a great many of them. But my grandfather, old King Herod, father of Philip and Antipas, had ten wives, remember, nine of them at the same time. The Jews didn’t like that, but what could they do? No, we aren’t too concerned about what the Jews will think. But Aretas’ daughter probably will try to cause trouble. Not because Antipas will be having a new bedfellow, but because she won’t any longer be Tetrarchess. Being replaced will make her furious. She cares not a fig for the Tetrarch’s bedding with other women; she even gave him a harem of Arabian women, Antipas told me.” She paused, smiling. “Claudia, you remember that black-haired woman at the banquet the other night, the one called Mary of Magdala?” Claudia nodded. “Well, Antipas told me that his wife not only knew that Mary was coming with him to Rome but actually suggested that he bring “Maybe the Tetrarchess sent this Mary with Antipas to keep his eyes from straying to other women, like you, for example.” “Keeping his eyes from straying would be an impossible task.” “Do you think Mary is jealous of you now?” “That woman!” Herodias tossed her head. “Of course not. Nor am I jealous of her. I really don’t care if he spends an occasional night in her bed. All I want is to be Tetrarchess. If he marries me, I shall insist, though, that he divorce that Arabian woman. No, our concern, Claudia”—she lowered her voice and glanced cautiously around the room, but Neaera had left the solarium—“is not what the Jews in Galilee, or his present wife, or this woman from Magdala will think, but rather what the Prefect himself will think. Sejanus could cause us much trouble. But now everything seems to be all right. Antipas assures me that we needn’t worry about it any longer. He says that he and Sejanus have reached an understanding.” “And I have a good idea of what that understanding is based upon,” Claudia said. “But what about your husband, Herodias? What will Philip think?” “Philip! Hah!” She sneered. “What Philip thinks is of no concern. I’ve never really cared for him anyway. It’s a little hard to feel romantic toward a man who’s your half uncle, you know.” “But Antipas, too, is your half uncle, isn’t he? And he’s Philip’s half brother as well. Hmm.” She smiled mischievously. “That makes him both Salome’s half uncle and half great-uncle, doesn’t it? That is, if Philip’s her father.” “Well, yes,” Herodias admitted. “I suppose he’s her father. Anyway, he thinks so. But he’s also an old man, a generation older than I.” She said it with evident sarcasm. “Antipas is old too, of course, but remember, my dear, he’s the Tetrarch of Galilee, while Philip is only a tiresome, fast aging, disowned son of a dead king, dependent for his very existence on the favor of a crotchety Emperor and a conniving Prefect. Antipas is old and fat, Claudia, but he has power and an opulence far in excess of Philip’s, and a Claudia studied the face of her Idumaean friend. “Herodias, you worship power, don’t you?” “Why shouldn’t I?” Herodias replied tartly. “Power and wealth, you forget, are rightfully mine. I am the granddaughter of Mariamne, King Herod’s royal wife, daughter of the Maccabeans, while Philip’s mother was only a high priest’s daughter and the mother of Antipas was a Samaritan woman. I am descended from the true royalty in Israel.” Her irritation faded as quickly as it had come. “You say I worship power. What else, pray, is there for one to worship? Your pale, anemic Roman gods? Bah! You don’t worship them yourself. Why then should I? I’m not even a Roman. Silly superstition, your Roman gods, and well you know it, Claudia. And the gods of the Greeks are no better. Nor the Egyptians. If I had to embrace the superstition of any religion I would be inclined to worship the Yahweh of the Jews. He’s the only god who makes any sense at all to me, but even he is too fire-breathing and vindictive for my liking. But I’m not a Jew, Claudia, even though I am descended on one side from the royal Maccabeans. I’m a Herod, and the Herods are Idumaeans. The Jews call them pagans, and by the Jews’ standards, pagans we are.” For a moment she was thoughtful, and Claudia said nothing to break the silence. “But I suppose you’re right, Claudia,” she said at last. “If I have any god at all, he’s the two-headed god of power and money. And if the Tetrarch were your Longinus, well, my god would have a third head, pleasure. I envy you, Claudia! By the way,” she added, as she poured wine for her guest and herself, “may I be so bold, my dear, as to inquire how things between you and the centurion stand just now?” “That’s why I came to see you, Herodias. I wanted to thank you for a most enjoyable evening too, but mainly I wanted to tell you that Longinus and I have—how did you express it—reached an understanding.” “Wonderful!” Herodias beamed. “Are you going to marry him, Claudia, or are you...?” She hesitated, grinning. “Am I going to marry him, or will we just continue as we are without the formality of marriage vows?” She laughed. “Yes, I’m planning to marry him. But this is what I wanted to tell you, Herodias. I’m going out with him to Palestine. He’s being sent there on some sort of special mission by the Prefect Sejanus.” “By all the gods, that is wonderful, Claudia! Then we’ll be able to see each other out there. Where will you be stationed? At Caesarea? Jerusalem? Maybe even Tiberias?” “He hasn’t received his detailed orders yet. But I’ll be able to visit you at the palace anyway. I hear it’s a magnificent place.” “It must be. I’m anxious to see it myself; you know, I haven’t been near the place since it was finished. And it will be wonderful to have you and Longinus to visit us.” But suddenly her expression sobered. “Claudia, has the Emperor given his permission for you to marry Longinus? And does the Prefect approve?” “Neither of them knows about it yet. But I’m sure they’ll both be glad to see me married and away from Rome. Longinus is going to speak to Sejanus about us.” They heard voices in the atrium. Claudia stood up quickly. “That must be the Tetrarch. By Bona Dea, I didn’t realize I was staying this long; I must be going. Longinus will be waiting for me. Herodias, surely we’ll see one another again before either of us sails for Palestine?” “Yes, we must. And when we do, we’ll both know more about our plans.” Neaera entered. “Has the Tetrarch come?” Herodias asked. “No, Mistress, it’s a soldier sent by the Prefect. He seeks the Lady Claudia. He awaits her in the atrium.” The soldier, one of the Praetorian Guardsmen, announced that the Prefect Sejanus was at that moment waiting for Claudia in her own apartment at the Imperial Palace. He added that he hoped they might start immediately; he feared the Prefect might be getting impatient. But when they reached her house and she entered the atrium to greet the Prefect of the Praetorian Guard, Sejanus bowed low and smiled reassuringly. “I come from an audience with your beloved stepfather, the Emperor, at Capri,” he said. “He commanded “For my marriage? But, Prefect Sejanus....” Claudia paused, striving to maintain outward composure. “I know it comes as quite a surprise to you. But the arrangements have been completed, and I’ve come here to tell you immediately on my return from Capri. You and your future husband are the only ones who are being informed now of the Emperor’s plans. But you will be married soon, even before you and your husband leave for his tour of duty in Palestine.” “In Palestine!” How could the Emperor have known about Longinus and me? The Prefect? Of course, that’s how. Sejanus knew that Longinus was with me at the banquet Antipas gave for Herodias; he knew that Longinus was at my house later that evening when he sent Cornelius out to fetch him, or he learned of it when they came afterward to his palace. Old Sejanus must not be so bad, after all. Nor is the Emperor, either. Perhaps I have been too severe in judging them. Perhaps they both have their good moments, their generous impulses.... “Yes, to Palestine.” The Prefect was speaking. “He has promised your hand in marriage to a Roman army officer who, if he follows my orders implicitly and remains completely loyal to me, may shortly be not only a man of wealth but also a leader of influence in the affairs of the Empire.” Claudia was about to express her thanks to the Emperor and his most excellent Prefect and to ask when the wedding would be held. But some instinctive vein of caution restrained her from mentioning Longinus’ name. Now the Prefect was speaking again. “Needless to say, I join the Emperor in praying the gods that you and the Procurator Pontius Pilate lead long lives and find great happiness with each other.” “The Procurator Pontius Pilate! Then....” But again caution stopped her just in time. Sejanus smiled. “You are surprised, my dear Claudia? And “But I ... I don’t even know this Pontius Pilate.” Claudia ignored the Prefect’s question. “He is to be Procurator in Palestine, succeeding Valerius Gratus?” “Procurator of Judaea, with headquarters at Caesarea, yes.” His grin was sardonically beguiling. “But what were you about to say?” “I was going to observe that then I would be spending the rest of my life away from Rome, living in a distant provincial army post,” she lied, not too convincingly, she suspected. But Sejanus did not pursue his questioning. “Not if the Procurator conducts the affairs of his post in the manner that I have outlined to him.” “Has he been informed of the Emperor’s plans for ... for us?” “Yes. And he is tremendously happy and excited, as what man wouldn’t be, my dear Claudia?” His lips flattened bloodless across his teeth, and his little eyes flamed. “Even I, with my youth long fled, envy him!” |