The Queen's Handmaid (37 page)

Herod traveled briefly to Rhodes to meet with Caesar
Octavian, installing the women in the fortress in Alexandrium in case any harm should come to him. While it was a respite from the daily torture of seeing Simon, the trip only aggravated the tension of waiting. And since Herod sent Sohemus along to watch over the women, the furtive moments she witnessed between Mariamme and the guard reinforced her own pain.

When they returned she tried to distract herself, and perhaps find a way back to the reason she had first come to Jerusalem, by sending for several rabbis to confer with her in a private meeting room of the palace. She asked a dozen questions about the writings of Daniel and of the Chakkiym, and yet the meetings ended with no new information gained. If the Chakkiym were more than the imaginings of her old mentor Samuel, there was no way to prove it from anything she had found in Jerusalem.

Lydia’s artistic abilities were next to worthless now. Royalty did not make pots to sell at market. She was, in fact, no use to anyone. The false importance of her new name and identity had stripped her of true importance in the lives of everyone she knew.

She wandered often into the palace workshop to see what David was creating. A bench last week, a cabinet today.

He grinned at her admiration of the cabinet. “Simon says I may use the tools in my extra time and sell what I make.” He blushed slightly. “I am saving for a bride-price.”

“What’s this?” Lydia laughed and pinched his arm. “Little David has his eye on a bride?”

“Her name is Halima. She lives south of the Temple. I cannot wait for you to meet her.” His eyes sparkled.

Lydia hugged him, disguising the pain of longing his words brought. “I am certain she is wonderful.”

And then the news began to pour into the palace like a river
gushing from a mountain spring. Antony, defeated in one battle, was returning to Egypt to advance on Octavian’s troops there. Then a victory for Antony at Alexandria, but his men were deserting. A decisive win for Octavian. Cleopatra playing both sides against each other.

And then the shock: Antony, believing Cleopatra captured, had taken his own life. But Cleopatra had struck a deal with Octavian, believing he would preserve her dignity if not her position. After learning she was to be made a mockery and paraded in chains in a Roman triumph, Cleopatra killed herself twelve days later.

Lydia received this news in the throne room, along with the rest of the royal family, and her blood raced, flushing her chest and neck and face, then draining away, leaving her dizzy. She stood alongside Mariamme before the throne and gripped her friend’s hand.

“Cleopatra is dead?”

“Yes.” Herod peered at her. “Surely you feel no grief, even though she was your cousin?”

“No. No, not grief. Just—shock—I suppose. She was my mistress, then my family, then my enemy for so long. I . . . I do not know what to feel.”

“Well, I say the world is a better place without her.” Mariamme’s defiant words were born of sadness and anger, but no less true.

Lydia straightened. “What of Caesarion?”

Herod shrugged. “Caesar has been ordering executions. Antony’s eldest is dead.”

“And?”

“And Caesarion.”

Lydia felt the blow harder than she thought she would. It
forced the air from her lungs, drained the strength from her limbs. She sank to a chair, with Mariamme easing her into it.

A numbness, heavy and solid like ice, settled in Lydia’s veins while somehow her stomach flamed into turmoil.

She was going to be sick.

Mariamme held a chamber pot while she heaved. Then summoned a servant to bring wine and a rag dipped in cool water for her face.

All these years. For so long she had waited to see Caesarion again, each year imagining him as he must be, taller and stronger, smarter and more confident. He was so young.

“Why?”

It was the only word she had spoken since the news, and it rasped out of a raw throat.

Herod smirked. “He said something about one Caesar in Rome being enough.”

Why had she thought it would be any different? Octavian could never allow the biological son of Julius Caesar to return, when his own sonship was a posthumous adoption, in name only.

“And you, our little mixed-blood princess.” Herod’s cool gaze fell on her where she sat beside Mariamme. “It would seem you are not needed to rule Egypt after all. But my suggestion has been well received by Caesar, and I am to give you to him immediately, for his general Agrippa. You will unite Egypt, Rome, and Judea with one marriage.”

“Give me to him?” Did Herod think she was his to dispense, like gold plate from his treasury? “I . . . I cannot grant an answer right now.”

Herod’s eyes widened. “What do I care for your answer? Besides, what is here for you?”

Nothing. There was nothing here for her. Not the Chakkiym. Not Simon. And nothing for her in Egypt.

She fled the throne room, through the courtyard, past Simon’s office, and then stopped.

She could not agree with Herod’s plan until they had one final conversation. Simon had made it clear in his actions that she was no longer part of his life. He served her as any other palace staff would serve, with eyes downcast and a deferential voice. But she needed to hear it. To hear him speak the words.

He looked up at the sound of her sandals, then jumped to his feet, knocking a quill and some scrolls to the floor.

She tried to smile. “My apologies for startling you.”

He waved a hand at the mess without taking his gaze from her. “It is nothing. Is there something I can do for you?”

She leaned against the door frame. “No. I—we have not had a moment to speak privately of late. I only wanted to see how you are.”

“How I am?”

The words sounded foolish now. She took a deep breath, steadied her hand against the door. “There has been news from Rome. Antony and Cleopatra are dead. And Caesarion.”

Simon was at her side in a moment. “Lydia. Oh, Lydia, I am so sorry.” He reached a hand toward her, then let it drop.

A few beats of silence and Lydia felt the familiar constriction in her chest.

“Caesar and Herod want me to marry the Roman, Marcus Agrippa.”

“And what do you want?”

The silence deepened. It had been an impertinent question, given their stations, and they both knew it. But she desired only to respond with truth.

“I . . . I do not know. I told Herod I could not give an answer yet. I think sometimes it would be better—”

Simon’s voice was steady, even cold. “He will make a good husband, I should think. You should give an answer quickly. Soldiers are not accustomed to being patient.”

“Is that what you want? Do you want me to marry him?”

He took a step back. “My lady, I am the manager of the king’s Jerusalem palace. I should not think my opinion in this matter holds any weight.”

She pushed forward, closing the space between them, her gaze on his face—the hard lines, the muscles twitching in his jaw. “It does hold weight with me.”

His posture straightened and he trained his eyes to look over her shoulder, as though she were not a breath from him. But the cords of his neck were strained, and his hands were fisted at his sides. He swallowed hard. “Then marry him, Lydia. Marry him, and end my suffering.”

The pain in his voice took her breath away. A dangerous warmth spread through her, mixed with a dawning pity. She had not known. Or perhaps she had. She touched his arm with her fingertips, but he jerked away as though burned.

“Simon.” She whispered his name, but he would only look at the doorway.

“I will say this only once, Lydia. And then we must not speak again.”

She nodded, silent.

“What was once between us cannot exist any longer. If you still care anything at all for me, you will marry Agrippa. It is the only way I can let you go.”

As Sohemus had let go of Mariamme? What proof was
there that creating the bond of marriage would dissolve all other bonds?

“Marry Agrippa and go to Rome, Lydia.” His eyes found hers at last, unshed tears sparkling on his lashes. “I am begging you to set me free.”

When Mariamme found her in her chamber an hour later, Lydia wiped her eyes with the handkerchief her friend offered.

“What did Simon say about your impending marriage?”

Lydia glanced sideways at Mariamme, but her expression held no judgment. Only pity.

Mariamme smiled sadly. “Do you think I have not seen how much he means to you? Every day you grow nobler, more royal. But also sadder.”

Lydia exhaled heavily. “He told me once that he loved me. He will not say it again.”

Mariamme pulled up a chair and sat beside Lydia, clasping her hands. “You must avoid him, Lydia. You must do all you can to stay away. Trust me.”

The way that she said
trust
me
was an opening she had never given Lydia. “Is it still Sohemus? Do you—have you—?”

Mariamme’s hands clenched involuntarily on Lydia’s. “I have done nothing, nor will I. But it has only grown more difficult as the years have passed. I have urged him to marry, but he refuses.” She shook her head, studying the floor. “Strangely, Herod must suspect nothing, for he continues to have Sohemus as my guard. With his jealousy, Herod never would have done so if he had any idea of Sohemus’s feelings for me.”

“Or your feelings for him.”

Mariamme stood and paced. “We should not speak of it. It only makes it more difficult.” She stopped and turned on Lydia. “That is why I tell you to trust me—you must remain distant from Simon. You know it is impossible to be together in the way that you wish, and no good will come of being near him in any other way. You will think you are only assuring yourself of his love or trying to ease his pain, but it only makes it harder, until you fear that your worst instincts will overwhelm you—”

She cut off with a sob, and Lydia went to her and embraced her.

How long she had suffered. Only her goodness and piety, and that of Sohemus, kept them both chaste and yet in pain. Herod could take as many slave girls to himself as he liked, and yet Mariamme must be denied the only man she loved.

Mariamme was right. She must remove herself from this place, from Simon.

Her time in Rome years ago had been too short, and it was an amazing city. Perhaps she could be happy there.

Nothing had turned out the way she had expected. Her destiny had not been the scrolls, nor even Jerusalem.

Perhaps it was time to let it all go.

Thirty-Three

S
alome sat cross-legged on the floor with a circle of tiny oil lamps flickering around her and incense burning in the center. She swayed gently with the warmth and the spicy scent and the half-drowsed lethargy she had fallen into.

Her mind was open, her palms spread before her. Let the goddess fill her with knowledge now, for she needed answers.

For years she had not felt this oppression, this blocking of her powers to control the lives and fates of those around her, even though she had been unable to worm her way between Herod and his precious Mariamme, to open her brother’s eyes to the woman’s unworthiness.

But the peace had ended the day Salome faced down that servant-turned-royalty, Lydia.

Just as before, when Salome had tried to destroy the girl’s mind in the storeroom, she had found Lydia protected. But not as before, for the protection was even stronger now, and it came from within the girl, not merely from without. Although she seemed yet unaware of her own power.

Salome breathed deeply of the incense and fought to keep her limbs relaxed, her hands open. What was it about the girl? Why was she important? A Ptolemy and a Hasmonean, yes. But there had to be more than this.

She whispered yet another prayer to the goddess for wisdom. For the power to defeat her enemy. For Lydia was her enemy, there could be no doubt.

A scuff at the door opened her eyes.

“What is it?”

Riva’s pale face appeared in the crack of the half-opened door.

Salome growled. The girl was useful as a handmaid chiefly because she had no scruples. But she had little sense either. “You are interrupting!”

“I am sorry, my lady. I . . . I have heard something I thought you would want to know.”

She sighed. “Enter. Say it.”

Riva slipped into the chamber, closed the door behind her, and leaned against it as though she feared to come closer. “It is about Lydia.”

Salome hid a smile. Riva was no happier than she about Lydia’s elevation in status and refused to call the girl anything but her given name. “What of Lydia?”

“She sent for some men to come to the palace and speak with her. Rabbis.”

Salome narrowed her eyes. “Why would she seek rabbis? I have seen little of the faithful Jewess in her.”

Riva ducked her head. “When they came and met with her in a private chamber, I hid at the door and listened.”

“Well done, then, Riva. And what did you discover?”

“She asked many questions, though she got few answers. They did not seem to know much about the knowledge she sought.”

Salome waited, resisting the urge to get up and shake the girl.