Lydia took a shaky breath. He had given her his story, his secrets. It was time for her own.
“He was Cleopatra’s younger brother. His name was Ptolemy,
of course. All of them carried the same name.” To speak his name seemed to release something in her heart. “I was abandoned as a baby in the palace, raised by the staff there. Ptolemy was five years older than I, but we were playmates. He was allowed to roam free until he was twelve and named coregent with Cleopatra. I followed him everywhere, and he never shooed me off.”
“He sounds kind. Not what I would expect.”
“I am not sure he was especially kind. But we did have fun together, and I loved him.”
“What happened?”
“By the time he was sixteen, he and Cleopatra were at odds, fighting over the throne. Julius Caesar came to Egypt and took her side, and after the war in Alexandria, Ptolemy escaped with his troops, planning to regroup and return.”
She paused, as the story was wearing her out. But she would finish it.
Simon seemed to sense she needed time and did not interrupt.
“I followed them.”
“The troops?”
“Yes. I snuck onto the boat they were taking across the Nile. Halfway across the river, I showed myself to him, declared my undying loyalty.”
“And you were—eleven years old?”
She nodded, studying her hands twisting in her lap. “He was so angry. Told me that a warship was no place for a girl, that I would only cause problems.”
“But I would wager you were no ordinary girl, even then.”
“I was a fool, and it cost him his life.”
Simon wrapped her restless hands in one of his own.
“Something went wrong with the boat. I don’t know. But it sank. We were too far from shore. I could not swim. He tried to
save me.” She broke free of Simon’s hand and covered her face, finding it wet with tears. “I thought we would both drown, but in the end, somehow, it was only him on the bottom of the Nile. His men dove and dove, but when they found him, it was far too late.”
“Oh, Lydia.”
Simon’s arm was around her shoulder now, and she hated herself for sinking into his embrace.
“It was not your fault.”
“I can still feel it sometimes, that feeling of drowning—of my chest so tight, without air, without hope.”
“So you had no parents, and you had lost the closest thing to a brother you had found. You have told me of Samuel and of Caesarion. It seems you continued to create family around you—a father and a younger brother. And both of them were taken from you as well.”
She did not have the strength to agree. But spelled out like that, it was a sad life, indeed.
“And now others have grown to love you—you have found a sister in Mariamme and a brother in David, but you are too fearful to truly embrace either one, for fear you will again be abandoned or rejected.”
She sighed again. “I suppose that is true.”
“And me?”
She tensed within his embrace. “You?”
“If I have grown to love you, will you keep me at arm’s length as well?”
She pulled away, studied his face. “You—I—we cannot be—”
He pounded the bench with a fist. “I know this! I have thought of little else. It is not only our positions, it is my duty. To focus on the rebellion, to leave off thoughts of my own happiness.” He took up her hands in his own. “But I do not care, Lydia.” His voice had
grown desperate. “I will leave the palace, take a job somewhere else, if it means—”
“I cannot leave Mariamme. She needs me.”
“I need you.”
She pulled from his grasp and stood, shaking her head. “No, no, you only think that because I am the only person in the palace who likes you.”
His eyes registered pain and he looked away. But then brought his attention back to her. “You speak the truth. I do not worry constantly what people think of me, as you do. I do not revolve my life around pleasing them, making them love me and need me. I am here for other reasons. And I suppose their dislike is well founded.”
“No.” Lydia bent to kneel before him, regretting her harsh words. “No, you simply don’t let people know you. Everything you do comes from a place of integrity and passion. I love that about you.”
“But you love your position with Mariamme more.”
Did she? Did she truly want to live out her days in this palace, become an old woman serving an old queen with no family of her own? She thought of the baby, of Alexander’s soft skin, his sweet smell, and the feel of his warmth pressed to her chest.
And what of her art? There would be little time for it in a life of service. Would she rather leave the palace and have the freedom to create in the way her heart longed?
The ground grew cold and she stood, with Simon still seated in front of her.
Did he sense the shift in her thoughts? Was it visible in her eyes?
His lips parted and he rose slowly, until his forehead was leaning against her own.
“No,” she said. “No, I do not love my position with Mariamme more.”
It was all the encouragement he needed.
His arm shot around her waist and pulled her in until they melted together. One hand was behind her head, tangled in her hair.
They had kissed once in a courtyard in Jericho. Well, twice, really.
Tonight’s kiss was nothing like those.
Warm enough to set her pulse racing, deep enough to make promises, long enough to make her forget the past. She reveled in the sense of coming home that was Simon and let her heart open to the future and its breathtaking possibilities.
She pulled away at last, laughing and glancing around. “Someone will see us.”
He kissed her eyelids, her forehead. “I don’t care.” The words were muffled against her skin.
They sat again in the dying light of the brazier and talked of his dream of a free Israel that would be their future, until it grew late and far too cold.
He kissed her again before they parted, erasing all her doubt. It could not matter that she was lady’s maid to the queen and he was palace manager. If their positions kept them apart, they would simply walk away. Like he did for the palace and the orphans who lived with Jonah and Esther, Simon protected and provided for everyone. She needed him more than she had needed anyone, but it did not frighten her. She belonged with Simon.
She wandered slowly from the inner courtyard, through the palace corridors, to the front courtyard, barely noticing her surroundings. What were shadows and cold when her heart was
warm and bright? She had not believed she could be so happy. Perhaps HaShem was pleased with her efforts after all.
The scrape of sandal on stone arrested her attention in the main courtyard. A young boy had wandered through the palace arch. He caught sight of her and strode toward her.
“A letter for the queen.” He waved a small scroll.
She extended her hand. “I am her lady’s maid. I will take it.”
He seemed reluctant at first, but she clucked her tongue. “Come now, it is cold. I will deliver it at once, if she is still awake.”
He made his delivery and disappeared, and Lydia crossed to the stairs. Did the letter pertain to Cleopatra’s visit tomorrow? Perhaps she wrote to cancel. That would make the evening perfect.
She tiptoed to Mariamme’s chamber and met Leodes at the door. He gave her a friendly wink and opened the door for her.
The new mother was awake and bent over Alexander’s little bed. “Come in, Lydia.”
“A message for you. Just arrived.”
Mariamme frowned and took the scroll, glanced at the seal, then broke it open.
Lydia turned to go.
“Stay, Lydia. Perhaps it is about Cleopatra. I know you are concerned.”
Lydia waited while Mariamme scanned the contents of the letter, but it did not appear to be good news of a cancellation. Instead, Mariamme’s face paled even in the dim lamplight, and when she set the letter aside, it was with a deep breath and a determined look.
“Sit down, Lydia.” She indicated a chair. “I have some things to tell you.”
C
leopatra Philopator, Queen of the Two Lands of Upper and Lower Egypt, was sick of Judea.
After nearly a week traveling southward from Syria, where she had left Antony still fighting his precious Parthians, the landscape had grown wearisome and her patience stretched taut. She came to examine her holdings and find a way to expand. If only it had been to fulfill her long-held desire to kill Herod. But alas, Antony’s affections were too fickle to risk his anger over the death of a friend.
She rode alone in the finest chariot Antony could procure for her from his Roman contacts in Syria. The rest of her traveling party consisted of servants, slaves, and a few advisers who were always hanging on wherever she went. And her cook, of course. She would not travel without her personal cook. It was neither palatable nor safe to eat foreigners’ food. Poisons were too easily disguised.
The hills along the western side of the Jordan River rolled past, but it was the dust, always the dust, that met her in the
chariot. She took another swig of watered wine from an amphora stashed in the corner of her seat. She would be drunk by the time she reached Jericho for all this wretched dust.
She had left Caesarion and the twins in Egypt, and strange as it sounded even to her, she missed them. Caesarion had grown into a fine young man, one who could someday take the reins of both Rome and Egypt, should he ever be given his birthright. And if not, her son with Antony, Alexander Helios, would be another likely candidate.
In the meantime, she needed only to keep Antony’s affections trained more on her than on Rome, a task that had been difficult the past two years as he insisted on moving with his troops. She needed to get him back to Egypt, where she could woo him with the extravagant Eastern lifestyle these staid Romans secretly craved.
She angled forward in the chariot and thrust a hand out the open side, waving for someone, anyone, to attend her.
A Nubian slave trotted to the side of the chariot. “Yes, Pharaoh?”
“Bring Anneas.”
“Yes, Pharaoh.”
The Nubian disappeared and she sat back, watching the Jordan River as it slid past. Water typically calmed her. Why did her nerves feel as taut as the reins of a stallion held in check?
Anneas was in the chariot in a moment, a bit breathless but smiling obsequiously. “You wanted me, my queen?”
He was a skinny man the age of her father, with a high-pitched whine of a voice, but he had served her well enough as adviser these past few years.
She pointed to the sheaf of papyrus scrolls tucked under his arm. “You brought the records?”
“Yes, yes. I assumed you would want to go over your holdings before we reached Jericho.” He set the pile beside him on the seat opposite her and began unrolling the first.
She gazed out the chariot opening once more. Yes, Antony had given her enough of the wealth of Judea to fill a half-dozen scrolls. And while she loved the money, it was the
land
she wanted. Had always wanted. To restore the glory of the Ptolemaic kingdom was her greatest ambition, and she would see it fulfilled in her lifetime, even before one of her sons took the throne in Rome from that young pretender Octavian.
Octavian.
She hated him nearly as much as she hated Herod. His miserable influence with the Senate, pouring poison into their ears with accusations of Antony being used by the Egyptian whore. Despite their supposed alliance, Octavian would love nothing more than to see her lover fall out of favor with Rome, even while he was off fighting their wars!
“My lady?”
Anneas’s nasal whine brought her attention back to the chariot.
“Shall I begin again?”
She sighed. “Yes, Anneas. Begin again. And begin with the date-palms. They are my favorite.”
Indeed, it was the sunset streaming across the date-palms of Jericho that finally eased her aggravation, hours later. At last, at last she would have a decent bath and a generous meal and a soft bed.
As for the dinner company, she had plans for Herod.
The palace loomed on the horizon, more stately and far-flung than she had imagined. “Herod has a talent for building, it would seem,” she said to Anneas.
“Hmm. Apparently his workforce can barely keep up. Jericho,
Masada, Jerusalem. They are saying he even has plans to expand and rebuild the Jews’ Temple to their One God.”
Cleopatra laughed. “Why would he do such a thing? Forced conversion hardly makes for religious fervor.”
Anneas shrugged.
“Well, his flair for luxury will serve us well tonight, Anneas.”
The sun had dropped below the horizon by the time they reached the palace, and in the purpling twilight Cleopatra peered from the chariot. Why had the slaves who had been sent ahead not roused a welcoming party? No torches, no servants waiting to greet and unload. The front gardens of the palace lay in winter neglect, and the massive double arch at the entrance was nearly dark.
Two of her own met them at the front wall, their bare chests and white skirts dull in the gloom.
Anneas jumped from the chariot to speak with them, then returned a moment later, his chin tucked against his chest, eyes focused on the chariot’s floorboards. “He is not here.”
A jolt of pure hatred flowed through her veins. “What!”
Anneas swallowed, still studying the floor. “He is in Jerusalem.”
“But I sent word! Did he not—?”
“Yes, he received it. The palace staff has a letter for you from Herod. Inside.”
Cleopatra breathed slowly through clenched teeth, but the effort did little to calm her rage. How dare he? “Inside, then. Let us hear what the mighty king of Judea has to say.”
The chariot rolled through the gate in the wall, along the bare and drooping gardens’ edge, to the double arch. Anneas helped her from the chariot, and she entered the palace with all the dignity she could muster, even if only slaves saw it.
Three female slaves waited inside, one of whom took her mantle, one who put a cup of warmed wine into her hands, and another who led her into the courtyard, where at least a few torches had been lit. Somehow the promised letter ended up in Anneas’s hands, and he held it to her tentatively, as if she might bite his hand.