CHAPTER THIRTEEN

MACHAERUS

The Tribune and his escort were now on the track that spiralled upwards to the fortress Machaerus. The last hint of evening light had all but gone, and the dark mass of the mountain on which Machaerus sat rose before them. Totally exhausted and walking by their carts, they grimly started the ascent. Some time earlier the Tribune had sent a soldier ahead to herald his arrival. It had been an arbitrary decision, for his tiredness had left no energy to debate the points of possibility. Furthermore he had been overcome by an attack of dizziness. It was his old complaint.

The track was well defined by the moon’s light, and there was no need for torches. Half way up they stopped to rest. The wind had freshened, carrying with it grains of sand and grit gathered from the parched, desolate slope. Valerius turned and looked back in the direction of the Dead Sea. He thought he saw the glitter of reflected light, the moon on the water, but it was probably imagination.

There were lights, though, when he looked again towards the summit; dancing points of light, moving down the slope towards them. Then they saw the torches blazing in the wind, and the shadowy forms that bore them.

The two parties were within hailing distance when the Tribune recognised Herod striding in front of his retinue. It was eastern hospitality at its best, he thought, and everything in his family training willed him to respond with equal generosity and reveal his purpose, but it was only sentiment. He knew such innocence would be utter foolishness, indeed a madness.

“My dear Valerius, what an honour!” Herod’s greeting rang with enthusiasm.

“Noble sir, I am touched by your welcome, but I must apologise for this late arrival – an impetuous decision, I’m afraid.”

“Spontaneity, my friend – a happy quality!”

Herod was full of talk as they climbed the slope together, and in his weariness the Tribune was content to listen.

“It’s just like Athens, and guess who’s here as well,” Herod enthused. “The Tribune Gallo!”

“Is he?” Valerius managed to say, barely disguising his shock. Gallo’s presence was disastrous, for no doubt he would be a willing messenger of Cornelia’s kidnap. Or maybe not, for if he were involved he might well hold his tongue. Another uncertainty, he concluded.

Herod must have sensed the Tribune stiffen when he mentioned Gallo. If so, he affected ignorance, and the words flowed on.

“He would have come with us to greet you, of course, but he was sleeping, and I didn’t like to disturb him. You Romans can’t cope with our rich Galilean wine,” he added jokingly, “Well, my friend, you and your escort will need to bathe and rest. Later we will have some food, and then our dancers and musicians will be on hand to entertain.”

“That is most kind,” Valerius responded with pretended enthusiasm.

They had reached the top, and the dark bulk of the fortress walls rose before them.

Having bathed, the Tribune slept fitfully for almost an hour. Then, accompanied by Venio, he descended the stone steps from his quarters to join the gathering in the main hall. He had almost reached the foot of the staircase when a further attack of dizziness froze him immobile. He waited, holding desperately to the rail, until it passed.

The strong symptoms of his old illness frightened him. Would he collapse and ruin the chances of Cornelia’s rescue? Would he be able to cope with Gallo’s invective? Again, there was the wily Herod, and the need for vigilance. The Tetrarch would know about his father, for Gallo would have seen to that. Yet he had been given an elaborate reception. Perhaps Herod’s clever mind had seen the treason charge as spurious. His body was beginning to perspire – another symptom. Doubts raced in triumph over reason. Then words from childhood rang in his mind. He could almost hear his father’s voice.

“Step by step, Lucius. Each step will be a beacon for the next.”

At that moment Herod spotted his approaching guest. He paused in his conversation, and instantly the general buzz of talk was hushed. All eyes were on the Tribune. They saw him tall, restrained, striking in the simplicity of his toga. For a moment no one spoke. Herod’s wife, Herodias, was fascinated. In a fluid movement she sat upright on her couch. A tremor of emotion ran beneath the surface of her poise.

“My dear Tribune, welcome! Welcome!” Herod’s voice boomed out.

Valerius was immediately engulfed by the gathering, and after the introductions were over he was escorted to his couch on Herod’s right – the position of honour. Next to him was Herodias, and then the steward Chuza and his wife Joanna. Gallo was on Herod’s left, and then came the Tetrarch’s favourites, rich merchants and landowners from Galilee and Perea. The couches were in a shallow arc, facing the ornate tiles that marked the centre of the hall, and all about them flickering tongues of flame danced from the myriad lamps and torches, their light giving a blazing life to the rich tapestries that hung on the high walls.

Only Valerius wore the toga, as Gallo, his fellow Roman, displayed a brilliant robe similar to the courtiers’ apparel. It was a gift from Herod, a flattering and princely gift appropriate for the friend of the great Sejanus. The Tribune noticed that the steward Chuza and his wife were alone in the modesty of their dress. They reminded him of the Ben Josephs, and instinctively he felt them as his allies in Cornelia’s rescue, though he was careful not to show his feelings.

Herodias quickly engaged the Tribune in conversation. She found him fascinating, knowing that he came from the highest level of Roman society. Gallo was nothing, and, if she wished, an easy prey to her advances, but Valerius was a prize fit for any woman. His patrician manners were measured with quiet dignity, and his aloofness was modified by an underlying warmth. Herodias was excited.

The sophisticated intimacy in her voice and movements did not leave the Tribune unaffected. However, to encourage her was unthinkable, yet he knew that any blunt rebuttal of her charm could spell danger. He had no wish to make an enemy of such a wilful woman.

Tables laden with food were placed before them, and a stream of carriers continuously added to the abundance. Under Herodias’s sharp eye the servants fluttered nervously as they bore dishes of lamb, freshly cut from the sizzling carcase.

Herodias nodded, indicating that all was ready, and the Tetrarch acknowledged the grace of the great God in words acceptable to his Roman guests. With a flourish he sampled his first sliver of meat. The banquet had begun, and praise for its bounty was on every lip.

The silver plate handed to the Tribune was beautifully wrought, and his gilded goblet, full of Galilean wine, a wonder. A wonder, too, was the spread of food before him; abundance heaped upon abundance, but he was not hungry, for a feeling of nausea had accompanied his dizziness, yet he had to play the grateful guest.

His indifferent gaze scanned the mound of pomegranates, the grapes in their generous heaps, the greens glistening with oil, the olives, the dates and figs. The round flat loaves of bread were still hot from their baking. Close to the bread was a large dish of olive oil. There were cheeses, of course, and sweetmeats to tempt the palate, as well as honey from every corner of the Tetrarchy. All this fuss for a few mouthfuls, he thought. Nevertheless, he allowed himself to be guided by Herodias, who suggested lamb, along with bread briefly dipped in oil.

Slaves with wine beakers were constantly in attendance, and as the meal proceeded the general clamour of the conversation grew.

“Valerius, any news about your father? I hope that all is well.” Gallo’s voice sounded above the rest.

Anger, rather than words, rose within the Tribune. He made to speak, but a flurry of dizziness stopped him. He gripped the couch tightly, and the large figure of Venio moved even closer to his master. The delay in his reply had drawn the attention of the guests, and all were waiting for his answer.

“No news, I’m afraid,” he said, as graciously as he could, but an atmosphere of awkwardness remained, and at once Herod moved to smooth the matter over.

“The charge against your father must come from some eccentric source,” he said easily. “I’m sure the Emperor will dismiss the charge as foolish.”

“My sentiments entirely, sir,” Valerius responded, and with that the general conversation resumed. As usual, he thought, Gallo had sown his seed of doubt, but with little real effect. Indeed, for a time the Tribune was puzzled, until he realised the simple fact – Gallo’s audience was Herodian, not Roman. For them the intrigues within the Senate were on a distant stage.

The dizziness had passed, and questions from Herod and Herodias, along with polite interjections from Chuza, kept the Tribune engaged in conversation. There was no mention of Cornelia’s abduction, and Valerius assumed that either Herod did not know, or if he did he had resolved to keep it secret. Certainly it was not public knowledge, otherwise some expression of sympathy would have been obligatory.

On the opposite side from Valerius, Gallo had attracted a circle of attention. Laughter was frequent, for the friend of Sejanus was entertaining. Gallo, of course, displayed no overt opposition to the Tribune. Like Valerius, he said, he too was the servant of the Emperor.

Herod applauded the professed unity, though he was well aware of the forceful undercurrents. It was not his place to take sides, for he, as a client prince, would have to deal with Rome, regardless of the ruling party. He had shown Valerius, as the Emperor’s legate, every honour, making him first in the hierarchy of guests. With Gallo, however, he played the bosom friend, the friend of long nights and late drinking, and the friend of the whispered confidence.

Herod’s even-handed approach was not lost on the Tribune. Indeed, he admired the Tetrarch’s skill. Herod was politically astute, yet not a man to always calculate, for the partner to his cleverness was passion.

“I believe your sister is staying at Capernaum,” Herodias said, interrupting his thought. “She must be our guest at Tiberias when we return.”

“She would be pleased,” the Tribune replied, knowing the opposite to be the case.

“It must be very quiet for her,” Herodias continued, “that is, except for the saintly troublemakers.”

The Rabbi and his disciples, Valerius surmised.

“And who are they?” he asked, pretending innocence.

“Oh, there is a Rabbi who claims he’s God, and he excites the people with Messianic hope. I keep telling my husband he should rid himself of such troublemakers, but he won’t listen!” Herodias emphasised the last words.

“Herod never listens! – what slander is my good wife perpetrating?” the Tetrarch asked, joining the conversation. His manner was full of humour, but his words contained a bitter edge.

Diplomatically the Tribune outlined Herodias’s opinion, but as he spoke he caught a fleeting look of fear in Herod’s eyes.

“He is a Rabbi, my dear, and when you strike a Rabbi you strike the people. You had your way when we struck the Baptist down, and little good that did!”

“It stopped his raving!”

“Herodias, my dear, you simplify things,” he returned with studied tolerance, though he was obviously annoyed. “You see, Tribune,” he added, “our tradition is full of prophets and preachers. It’s in the blood of the people.”

“Superstitious blood,” Herodias retorted disdainfully. “Tribune, there are some who actually believe that the Rabbi just mentioned is the Baptist reborn.”

The Tribune nodded politely. The messenger at Capernaum had mentioned the ‘holy Baptist’. Obviously he had been a strong religious figure.

Herod did not react to his wife’s provocation. Instead he turned to the steward Chuza.

“Chuza, you have met this Rabbi; what is your opinion?”

“He has performed many good works, I’m told,” the steward said quietly, but he ventured no further opinion.

“My treasurer is, as always, circumspect.” At that Herod laughed, and took the chance to change the subject.

What a complex character Herod was, the Tribune thought. A clever and able politician, modern in his perception, yet a man still swayed by superstition, for he had been troubled by the mention of the Baptist’s second birth.

The main meal was over, and the servants had cleared the tables, but the wine still flowed. The crucial time was fast approaching, he judged. He felt his heart beating strongly and tension began to grip his stomach. So far no dizziness. He beckoned Venio.

“Tap my shoulder when you see,” he breathed. There was no need for further explanation.

“You’re not too weary, Venio, I hope,” he said aloud.

“No, master.”

As the musicians assembled, Herodias seemed to grow more talkative, but he dared not show impatience. His eyes scanned the harpists, while he nodded and made appropriate responses. Next came the horns and trumpets, then the flutes. Cornelia had learned the flute.

He felt a light tap on his shoulder, and there was Cornelia, plainly visible. Her eyes turned towards him. He stood up.

His cry, “Cornelia” and her rush towards him were simultaneous.

“Master Lucius,” were her only words, as she clung to him and he held her until her sobbing ebbed away.

“My dear, sweet girl,” he said, looking at her intently. Each seemed to drink the other’s joy.

Suddenly the Tribune was aware of the silence.

“Tribune! what does this mean?” Herod’s voice sounded distant, as if from another world.

Valerius turned at once to face his host’s black anger, but now that Cornelia was safe his full power came to him.

“This sweet girl is my sister’s companion,” he began, his gaze unflinching. “She was criminally abducted in Athens, and now by the grace of the mighty gods I’ve found her.” He continued to focus on the Tetrarch, his eyes unwavering as he watched desire battle with political reality on Herod’s face. Slowly the darkness began to lift.

“My dear Valerius, we had no thought of this!”

“Of course, my friend, you were not to know,” the Tribune said dismissively.

“Why all this concern for a slave?” Gallo’s drunken words were heard by all.

The Tribune froze, his anger boiling. Slowly he turned to face his enemy. Again there was no sound.

“The Lady Cornelia will be adopted by the good merchant Demetrianus of Antioch.” The Tribune’s clipped words rang defiantly.

“In the circumstances a better wager than Valerius,” Gallo reacted dully, his eyes glazed with excess drinking.

The Tribune’s anger turned quickly to disgust, but it was Cornelia’s renewed distress that made him turn away.

“Master Lucius, I’m grateful, very grateful, but I’d rather be a slave than leave my lady or yourself,” she managed to say, her voice choked with emotion. Clearly her terrible ordeal had left her weak and vulnerable, for it was not in her nature to be demonstrative in public.

For a moment he held her closely, feeling the warmth of her shaking body.

“Dear Cornelia, no one will force you to do anything. You’ll be with Drusilla in a few days’ time.”

Standing back, he looked at her for what seemed a long time. She was very beautiful. It was as if he was seeing her for the first time.

The whole assembly was mesmerised by the drama taking place before them. Both conversation and movement were stilled, and tears ran down Venio’s cheeks unashamedly.

Herod broke the spell at last.

“My good steward’s wife Joanna will see that the lady is cared for according to her wish.”

The Tribune nodded in approval.

“Rest well, my dear. I’ll see you in the morning,” he told her gently.

As she walked away she turned to look at him, her eyes full of adoration.

Suddenly everyone was talking.

The Tribune returned to his couch and the knowing smile of Herodias.

“That was a fortunate coincidence, Tribune,” she said with a note of amused detachment. “I’ve often noticed that the Roman stoic is much more demonstrative than we hot-blooded easterners.” Her look was not unfriendly.

“Madam,” he said, bowing slightly in acknowledgement. She was a clever woman.

Herod’s mood was no mirror of his wife’s urbanity. He failed to hide his coldness, and his eyes had the same frozen fixity the Tribune had observed in Athens.

Behind his frozen look Herod’s mind was busy. Had he been tricked? He had, he thought angrily. Yet it had appeared innocent. Too unusual to be innocent! he countered. But who had let her out? – for no one had been able to make her talk, eat or co-operate. Who, then, had persuaded her to join the musicians? Were there traitors in the fortress? If so, he would make them plead for death. His mind raced on. Now he understood the so-called impulsive visit, but he kept returning to one basic question. Why had Valerius not asked him directly about her whereabouts? Either the Roman did not think he knew, or he did not trust him! Would he have released her? He smiled to himself. She was a pretty thing, and the desert was large. Yet there were many creatures just the same. Yes – he would have let her go! He inclined his head towards the Tribune.

“I suppose you never dreamt you would find the girl in this place, Valerius,” he said easily.

“I knew she was transported to the east, or so I was told in Athens. However, knowing her origin, I assumed her captors would sell her beyond the borders of the Empire.”

Herod pretended not to understand and asked the Tribune to continue, and he, sensing that the Tetrarch was testing him, reacted not with caution but with annoyance. Yet he restrained his impatience.

“The writ of Rome is more sacred within its borders than without, or at least it should be,” he said briskly, shooting a quick, involuntary glance at Herod. The effect of the unthinking gesture was instant, making the Tetrarch switch to the defensive. Had the Tribune questioned his loyalty to Rome? Immediately he made his position clear.

“I am a loyal friend of Rome. That is well known, and if I’d guessed her identity…” He gestured elaborately with his hands. “But she wouldn’t speak or eat! How someone persuaded her to join the musicians is a mystery!”

“My friend, don’t worry. What happened happened,” the Tribune said reassuringly. He had no wish to antagonise the Jewish Prince, for even though he was a fox, he was a useful fox to Rome. “If I’d not been here this evening,” he continued calmly, “you would have realised the truth when news of her abduction reached your ears. But even if Cornelia had not joined the musicians I should naturally have sought your help and advice at tomorrow’s formal session.”

The Tribune’s voice had a note of finality, which Herod accepted.

The musicians were in place, waiting. The Tetrarch nodded lazily, and they began. He sat back, reclining deep into the rich, patterned cushions, his mind in turmoil and oblivious to the music. The whole event was grossly embarrassing, and soon would be the gossip of Rome, and any punishment of the girl’s keeper would belie his generosity.

Damn! he thought, would he ever be his own master? His fists tightened in exasperation.

The first strains of music had hardly begun before the Tribune was almost overcome by sleep. He pinched himself, ate grapes, but the heaviness in his eyes was overpowering.

“You’re tired, Tribune.” The voice of Herodias seemed to come from a tunnelled distance.

“Forgive me, the magical modes are much too soothing.” He smiled, grateful for the stimulant of conversation, but the music seemed endless and the effort to keep awake painful. Through his glazed half-vision he noticed that Gallo and Herod were exchanging confidential whispers. Meaningless mutterings, he surmised, for Gallo looked incapable of anything else.

Then all at once the music stopped, and the musicians filed out, except for a drummer and a single flautist. Herodias excused herself.

“The dancing is about to begin, Tribune. You will excuse me? I find the eager eyes of the men distasteful. I can tolerate one man’s eagerness, of course!” Her thin smile was like a wisp of silk. Then, acknowledging her husband, she retired.

Gallo began to revive as the dancing grew more spirited. He sat on the edge of his couch, clapping and foot-tapping to the rhythm, his eyes glistening as he followed the lithe movements of the dancers. Impulsively he rose to imitate them, his interpretation vigorous and passionate.

Herod was greatly amused, and tears of laughter ran down his cheeks. He turned to Valerius to share his amusement, but he was fast asleep.

“Tribune!” The Tetrarch nudged his sleeping guest, “you cannot sleep while such talent plays!”

Valerius shook himself. “Your hospitality and your Galilean wine, my good Tetrarch,” he murmured in excuse.

By now Gallo was in full cry, whoops of support echoing in the high roof. Then suddenly he collapsed onto his couch, totally exhausted.

“A prodigy!” the Tetrarch shouted. “More wine!”

Once more the cups were filled.

It was time for the last solo dance. Herod quickly scanned the circle of his guests, and on seeing the lined weariness on his steward’s face he dismissed him with a casual wave. Chuza bowed to his master and the Tribune and withdrew, but no one seemed to notice except Valerius. There were good points in the complex mixture of Herod’s personality, he thought.

A girl stood in the centre of the hall, vibrant with energy, her posture defiant as she waited for Herod’s sign to start.

She began with a slow, deliberate beat which she articulated with a pronounced stamping of her foot and a jerked movement of the arms. Gradually the beat accelerated. All attention was on her supple figure, fashioned to near perfection. Naked desire lit the men’s eyes – Herodias’s aversion was well-founded. The pace quickened, until the girl’s body glistened with perspiration. Then came the frenzy, and the last impossible peak. Suddenly it was over.

The girl collapsed at Gallo’s feet, drained of energy. There was no surrender in her eyes as she looked at the man before her. Her act of submission was the will of Herod, not hers. She was Gallo’s prize.

The adulation of wine-loosed tongues drowned the sound of her gasping breath. Then quickly she rose and left the hall.

The dancing and the girl’s submission had filled Gallo with a new, bellicose energy. He wanted to practise his invective, and to him Valerius was the obvious target. The desire was boiling, explosive.

“My generous friend,” he began, addressing Herod, “we must allow Valerius some time for a blissful couch with his lady flautist.”

Herod’s response was thin and frozen.

“Easy, my friend, easy,” he said quietly.

The Tribune just managed to restrain his anger, but Gallo was undeterred.

“You ought to enjoy yourself while you can, Valerius, for fortune is a fickle thing. Your father knows that well.”

“To Hades with you, Gallo, hold your tongue!” the Tribune exploded.

“Ha! I’ve drawn blood. The paragon can speak.” Gallo was growing reckless, a wine-soaked recklessness.

Valerius made to speak, but another fit of dizziness checked him. Encouraged by the Tribune’s hesitation, Gallo staggered to his feet.

“Come, let’s dance, my paragon,” he taunted, leering at the Tribune.

In an instant the huge figure of Venio stepped before his master.

“Trust Valerius to hire an ox as his servant,” Gallo muttered, swaying wildly, but the arms of Herod were there to steady him.

“Calm, calm, my friend,” Herod said, while guiding Gallo to his couch.

“I want to dance with my paragon,” he protested, but he sat down listlessly in dull obedience.

The Tribune’s dizziness had begun to clear when he heard the welcome sound of Herod’s voice bringing the proceedings to a close.

“This has been an evening to remember,” he boomed. “We’ve seen both the dignity of Rome,” he said, bowing to the Tribune, “and her playfulness.” His elaborate gesture indicated Gallo. Then a servant interrupted him. It was obviously something urgent.

“Send him in at once,” he responded loudly to the servant’s whispered message. Then he turned to Valerius.

“Tribune, a rider has arrived with despatches for your hand only.”

The Tribune watched uneasily as the messenger walked stiffly towards him. Long hours of hard riding had taken their toll, he guessed. He was one of Tullus’s men – he had seen him with the javelin – but what were his messages, and who were they from? His father, Lamia, maybe, or even Tiberius, and one from Tullus, perhaps? A quick glance showed that the main roll was from Rome, the Governor Aelius Lamia, the other from Tullus. Quickly he scanned Lamia’s brief message, then he read it aloud to Herod.

“This is great news, Tribune, but not unexpected. May I tell my friends?”

Valerius nodded.

“The Emperor has dismissed the treason charge against the Tribune’s father,” he announced loudly in Greek, and shouts of congratulation echoed round the hall. “There’s more, there’s more,” Herod bellowed, holding up his hand.

“It’s the Emperor’s joke. He says ‘he’s no longer worthy to live if Valerius hates him.’ Clearly the great man’s way of ridiculing a spurious charge. My friend, congratulations!” he added, slapping the Tribune on the back. “Wine! More wine! We must raise our cups to the Senator and the wisdom of the Emperor.”

The toasts were noisy and enthusiastic, and Gallo played his part with surface charm. The news had sobered him, but it also left him cold and angry. Valerius was an intolerable obstacle to his plans.

It was late and dawn was not far off, and after thanking the Tetrarch for his generous hospitality the Tribune withdrew to his quarters, followed by Venio and the messenger. He would read Tullus’s letter in his room, he thought, then sleep at last.

At the insistence of Joanna, Venio woke Valerius after what had been a few hours’ fitful sleep. She was concerned for Cornelia, whose nightmares had been constant.

“She’s had little rest, sir,” she emphasised when the Tribune received her. “Such a reaction often happens when an ordeal is over. I’ve tried to calm and reassure her, but you, Tribune, can do more than any number of strangers.”

Valerius nodded, watching Joanna intently. She was a good deal younger than her husband. A motherly lady, he thought, whose round, placid face exuded calm, yet there was something else very familiar in her voice and actions, but he could not remember what it was.

They went to Cornelia’s room immediately, and as soon as he entered she ran to him, obviously distressed.

“Master Lucius, please take me away from here!”

In his arms she grew calmer, and quickly the awareness of her longing grew to dim her nightmare memories. She moved from him, her face flushed.

“Master Lucius, this good lady stayed with me all through the night,” she said, looking at Joanna.

“Madam, that was most kind.”

Joanna said nothing, but her open tranquillity had an eloquence deeper than words. A sudden welling of love rose within him, and the strong sense of familiarity returned. Yes, of course, he almost said aloud, the Disciple.

His heart was open as he turned towards Cornelia, and she, adoring him, was full of light. The feelings that engulfed him were impossible to deny. Embarrassed and confused, his eyes sought refuge in the patterned rug covering the floor.

“We will leave as soon as possible after the formal talks with the Tetrarch are over – about midday, my dear,” he added softly.

The Tribune excused himself, leaving the two women alone, and for a moment nothing was said. Then Cornelia began to weep silently.

“Oh, madam, what am I to do? What am I to do? I love him. I cannot help it. I love him. I love him,” she cried, abandoning her pentup secret to expression. “I am a slave, and even if I were a freedwoman it would make no difference, for he is…” her sobbing choked the rest.

“My child,” Joanna said kindly, “be patient, he will find a way.”

The talks between Herod and the Tribune were jovial and friendly. Herod was pleased with himself, for he had played his part well. Thankfully, Gallo’s glib advice had not influenced him, as Valerius was anything but politically dead. The letter in the night was ample proof of that. Frustrating though it was, he had accepted the loss of the girl as an irreversible fact. Anyway, it was a small price to gain the confidence of the Emperor’s personal legate.

He was even more gratified when the Tribune stressed his key position in the area.

“Tetrarch, you know the border well, and what is more, you know its politics, and again, you are an excellent representative for the Roman cause – a role that could expand.”

The eyes of the two men met, and Herod knew the Tribune meant his words. He was elated.

As Valerius had anticipated, the meeting ended at midday. Gallo had already left, and the Tribune, Herod and his steward Chuza shared a light meal together.

“I expected Gallo’s eyes to be like pomegranates this morning,” Herod said jokingly amidst the general conversation, “but no, he was full of energy as usual – what a character!”

“Did he say where he was going?” Valerius asked.

“Not directly, but I gathered from one of his aides that it could be Philadelphia.”

At last it was time to go, and Valerius excused himself to prepare for his departure. In the courtyard of the fortress his two carts were waiting, along with a four-wheeled covered cart provided by Herod for Cornelia’s transport. It was the final irony.

His mission was complete, but the Tribune was under no illusion. Without the mantle of the Emperor he could have done little.