Chapter Thirty-Two

Shelamzion

Queen.

I walked up the stone staircase of John Hyrcanus’s former home, past the reception room where I used to observe him, and past the curious servants watching from the vestibule.

I never wanted to be queen. In all my thirty-seven years, I never dreamed I would be. But here I was, married to Alexander Jannaeus, the twenty-three-year-old king of Judea and high priest of Israel.

I entered the chamber where Uncle and Alena had slept. I saw the bed where Alena had proudly presented her new baby, Alexander Jannaeus, to a fourteen-year-old girl called Shelamzion.

The same bed Salina sat on when she told me her plan.

“I hope, Shelamzion, that my action will please you,” she had said when she visited our home.

How could it? How could I live in this house as queen when that title rightly belonged to Alena? If not for the avarice of Judah Aristobulus, this would still be her home. If not for Salina’s conniving and Jannaeus’s ambition, this house might belong to someone far more deserving.

“Oh, Adonai,” I whispered, standing at the doors that opened onto the balcony, “give me wisdom and grant us grace. For the man I have married is not wise enough to be king.”

I had hoped my husband would mature during the months of his confinement. I had hoped he would develop a tender affection for his younger brothers and a deeper reverence for Adonai.

But after only a few weeks, I saw that he had done none of those things.

Within a year, both Absalom and Elias had joined Aristobulus and Antigonus in the family tomb. Elias had the temerity to attempt a coup, which Jannaeus easily put down by executing his youngest brother. Absalom was wise enough to stay away from the palace and its politics, but several months after Jannaeus claimed the throne, Absalom died under mysterious circumstances.

With four of John Hyrcanus’s five sons gone, only Jannaeus remained.

The night we received the news of Absalom’s death, I looked at my husband and realized we had become just like the Gentiles who ruled the empires around us. As a young girl, I was appalled to learn how the Ptolemies married their kin and murdered their siblings, but had we not done the same things? Had we not become like the pagans who did not know HaShem?

Uncle once told me that as long as we did not despise our Law, we had the freedom to adopt new ways and attitudes. Yet the more I considered the kingdom of Judea, the more resolute I became in my determination to serve Adonai and honor every jot and tittle of the Law.

In that moment I made HaShem a promise: I would send for Simeon ben Shetah, and I would devote myself anew to my Torah studies. I would study the Scriptures and the oral laws, and I would do my best to please Adonai and be an example to my husband and my precious sons. How else could I live in a family who only pretended to seek HaShem’s blessing?

Simeon would help me observe even the smallest portions of the Law, written and unwritten, and I would allow these to define every aspect of my life—how I ate, how I walked, how I worshiped, and how I dealt with Gentiles. I would observe the Sabbath faithfully. So long as my monthly courses flowed, I would remain apart from others and end my time of separation with a proper mikvah. I would do all this and more in order to demonstrate righteousness in a palace where righteousness had become rare.

At home I would be a virtuous mother to my sons. I would teach them the Law of the Lord, and I would encourage them to seek wisdom above all else. I would tell them stories of our forefathers, those who followed Adonai and those who did not, so my sons could learn from their examples.

I would be a virtuous wife to my husband. Though he did not seek my bed as often as he once had, I would be faithful to him and modest in my speech, dress, and conduct. I would encourage him to love HaShem and seek righteousness, and I would offer to help as I had in Galilee. Jannaeus was not a man who liked to sit and listen, so if I could listen to the problems of the people in his stead, I would.

Because my year of living among the people had taught me that they were not happy with the events of the past two years. Most of them missed John Hyrcanus, and Aristobulus’s bloody reign had left them disturbed and disgusted with the Hasmoneans. If a new candidate appeared on the horizon, a righteous man from the tribe of Judah, they would fall to their knees and beg him to be their king.

Israel wanted a savior. The people’s longing for a fresh start was almost palpable in the city streets.

A new appreciation for the Pharisees and the Essenes bloomed in my heart. I had heard that many of the Essenes were planning to establish a community in the desert to prepare for the coming of the Messiah. Like me, they were no longer content to merely acknowledge the Law; they vowed to perform it and become living examples.

In stark contrast, my husband was a Sadducee, who cared nothing for talk of the coming Messiah, and he cared even less about the idea of an afterlife. His thoughts centered on living each day and taking pleasure where he could find it.

Yet I knew life did not end with death. David spoke of living after this life, and so did Job. Enoch and Elijah had been taken away, and where did they go? Surely they were with HaShem.

One day I would also be with Him. Until then, I would do my utmost to live a holy life. Every day I would ask HaShem to help my husband be the king he could and ought to be.

A king ought to be an example for his people. Likewise I would have to become an example for my king.

I do not know what my husband did to pass the time in prison, but eventually I realized that he must have whiled away the hours planning his first actions as high priest and ruler. I said as much to him at dinner one night.

“Husband,” I said, turning on my couch to better see him, “you have been so decisive since becoming king—one would almost think you knew you would be released.”

He gave a half smile. “I knew it would go one of two ways. Either I would die or I would sit on the throne. Aristobulus had no other options.”

“He could have freed you to come home to your family.”

Jannaeus shook his head. “He could not. So long as I lived, I could have led an insurgency against him, and he would have been a fool to take the risk. Live or die—the only two choices.”

And the reason he killed his two younger brothers.

“I am glad you were not executed,” I said, leaving a host of words unspoken. I could not hope to win my husband if I spent all my time berating him.

“Of course you are. Without me, you would be nothing.”

He was correct, and yet my spirit flared at his assertion. Kissa, Mother, and I had nearly chosen to move to Modein and live in poverty, but even as poor farmers we would never have been nothing.

Becoming king changed my husband in ways I could not have foreseen. He still had no patience for dealing with the problems of common people, and his vision for territorial expansion now extended far beyond Galilee. Not content to be a capable ruler, he aspired to the particular renown of Alexander the Great.

“I am Alexander,” he frequently boasted, reminding all who listened of his formal name. “I have his character and his genius.” He commanded the Jerusalem mint to produce coins that on one side displayed the lily, a symbol of Jerusalem, and on the other side an anchor, a symbol of the coastal territories he desperately desired to conquer.

Within a few months of his investiture, Jannaeus summoned his military chiefs. His first conquest, he informed me as a servant helped him into a new suit of armor, would be Ptolemais, a Galilean port city controlled by the Seleucids. “I have dreamed of capturing Ptolemais for years,” he said as the servant slipped a heavy coat of mail over his tunic. “When Ezra Diagos and I would ride through the Galilean hills, I would see that city gleaming on the western horizon. It is the perfect port, and we shall claim it for Judea.”

I smiled in wifely agreement, but my thoughts had been distracted at the mention of Jannaeus’s commander. “Will Diagos lead your army?”

“Who else is as cunning and brave?” Jannaeus flexed his arms, testing his freedom of movement. “I have sent for him. He is bringing five thousand mercenaries to Jerusalem, and we will leave for Ptolemais as soon as possible.”

“Diagos is coming here?”

My husband nodded absently, then raised his arms while his servant adjusted the belt. “The gold-handled dagger,” Jannaeus said, pointing to a selection of blades on a table. “And the sword.”

The servant slid these onto the belt, then fastened it and stepped back. Jannaeus put on his new silver helmet, shaped close to the head and topped with a red plume, then turned and admired his reflection in the large slab of polished granite he had installed in his bedchamber, a large space at the back of the house . . . and as far away from my room as it could possibly be.

“You look handsome,” I told him, hoping to say what he wanted to hear.

He smiled at his reflection, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. Then he turned to face me. “Tonight I will be out. If Ezra Diagos arrives early, you must keep him company at dinner. I will join you if I can.”

He moved toward the door, then paused to pour himself a glass of water, gargled, and spit into a basin. He then left the chamber, his red plume bouncing with every step.

With startling clarity, I realized where he was going. The gargling and spitting was a breath-cleansing ritual he used to perform just before climbing into my bed. If he was gargling in the middle of the day, he was off to see another woman.

I considered that revelation as if it were a stone in my hand. I studied it, marveled at it, searched my heart for some reaction to it . . . and discovered that I simply did not care.

Determined to remain above reproach despite my husband’s dalliances, I planned a dinner for myself, my sons, Simeon ben Shetah, and Ezra Diagos. I had the servants arrange the couches in the shape of a half-moon with the long side open for the servants. I would sit in the center and would not favor anyone with more attention than any other. I would definitely not favor Ezra Diagos, though I had thought about him many times since our first meeting in Galilee.

I cannot say why I thought about him. I was a married woman, a righteous woman, and I had no wish to betray my husband. But the commander was handsome, intelligent, and more clever than any man of my acquaintance. More than that, he laughed at my little jokes, which Jannaeus never understood, and he actually seemed to hear when he listened to me. A light filled his eyes when we talked, a gleam that led me to believe he might feel the same pleasure in my company that I felt in his.

Before dinner, I sat at my dressing table and tried to remain calm as Kissa did my hair. While my thoughts scampered about like squirrels, I took deep breaths and pretended that this dinner would be like any other.

Kissa pinned the last pearl into my hair. “Would you like to wear the blue gown?”

“The rose, I think.” I forced a yawn. “I was saving it to surprise Jannaeus, but I doubt he would even notice.”

Kissa pulled the new garment from the trunk and ran her fingers over the silky fabric. I rarely wore this shade, but the pink hues might bring out the color in my skin and lips. Perhaps I would look younger than my years.

My thoughts took a sharp detour at the thought. Jannaeus was probably with a young woman now, celebrating her beauty because mine had faded even before he took me as his wife.

“Kissa”—I fingered the garment’s modest neckline as Kissa adjusted the fit—“you hear all the rumors being spread among the servants, do you not?”

She chuckled as she drew several himations from a basket. “Even rumors I would rather not hear.”

“So tell me—who is my husband with tonight?”

She froze, himations in hand, and reluctantly met my gaze. “The daughter of a salt merchant.” She looked away and spoke more rapidly. “I hoped you would never know. I do not want to see you hurt.”

“Is everyone in the palace aware of his new infatuation?”

She hesitated before dipping her chin in a slight nod.

I reached out and selected a white himation from her offerings. “Thank you for telling me. I am not hurt, although my pride is a little wounded.”

“Who told you?”

The corner of my mouth twisted. “Jannaeus. Not directly, of course, but I think he meant for me to know. Life will be easier for him if I am aware of his infidelities. He won’t have to make such an effort crafting his lies.”

“Even so,” Kissa said, “I am sorry for it. You deserve a husband who loves you alone.”

I caught her hand and squeezed it. “So do you. But here I sit, and there you stand, and apparently neither of us was meant to find happiness in marriage. Yet HaShem brought us together for His reasons.”

I picked up the bouquet of roses she had placed on the dressing table. “And now, while my husband dallies with his mistress, I will go entertain his guests.”

“How do you find your life as queen?” Ezra Diagos asked, leaning toward me.

I lowered my gaze and wiped my fingers on a piece of linen. “Adonai does what He wills. I never meant to be queen—”

“But here you are,” Simeon ben Shetah interrupted. “And have you considered how much good you may do in your position?”

I tilted my head, surprised by the question. I was about to answer, but a piece of flying citron peel distracted me. Hyrcanus had tossed it at Aristobulus, and my younger son was preparing to throw a handful of grapes at his brother.

“Children!” I caught the eye of a servant at the door, then gestured to the boys. “My sons are ready to retire. See to it, will you?”

The boys did not complain, nor did I expect them to. At five and seven years, they would rather play in their bedchamber than sit quietly during a banquet.

Once they had left the room, I drew in a breath and looked at my esteemed Torah teacher. “In truth, since becoming queen, I have been feeling—” I searched for the right word and could only come up with one—“guilty.”

Simeon lifted a brow. “Why is that?”

I shook my head, not knowing how to explain without implicating others. “I have become aware of failings . . . in my family. As a child, I thought John Hyrcanus the most righteous, most noble man in Judea, but now I see things differently. I have seen what his eldest son did to his mother. I have seen what my own husband did to his brothers . . .” I bit my lip, afraid I might say too much. Speaking one’s mind could be dangerous in the high priest’s palace, even for me. “Let me say this: I have been feeling a strong desire to return to the study of Torah. I want to lead others by example. I want my sons to understand that I am committed to obeying the Law. I want the righteousness of Adonai to shine from me.”

I glanced at Ezra Diagos to see how he would react to my statement. If he was not equally committed to following HaShem, he might not be interested in continuing our friendship . . . and I could slam the door on the unrighteous yearnings of my heart.

Diagos’s eyes warmed as he looked at me, the hint of a smile either appreciating my pursuit of righteousness or mocking it, I could not tell which.

But Simeon leaned closer, his face alight with eagerness. “This is good news indeed. HaShem, blessed be He, will reward you enormously.”

I had expected him to approve, but his level of enthusiasm surprised me.

“Shelamzion,” he continued, “many in Jerusalem feel the same way. They have seen the corruption of our leaders, and they know the current high priest—excuse me, my queen, but it is true—does not honor Adonai. We have turned our backs on everything Judas Maccabaeus and his brothers fought to defend, and we have forgotten how to live according to the Law.”

Diagos shook his head. “Not everyone has forgotten. Many still follow the Law and worship at the Temple.”

Simeon waved the commander’s words away. “They follow a form of the Law, but it does not touch their hearts. Yet there are devout men and women who want to understand the Torah, who are studying the writings and the prophets, and are preparing for what is to come.”

I snatched a quick breath. “What do you mean? And who are these people?”

“They are the faithful.” Simeon rested his elbows on his knees. “Some, mostly men, have gone out to the desert. Those who have families are still in Jerusalem, worshiping in homes, not the Temple. They have established haverim throughout the city of Jerusalem.”

Not familiar with the word, I looked at Diagos, but he appeared equally puzzled.

“A havurah is a fellowship,” Simeon explained. “Those who want to join must repent of transgressing against the Law. They must take an oath to accept the havurah’s rules of ritual purity and eat only food that has been properly tithed. After a year of studying Torah, if the prospective member has not transgressed in any way, he or she is examined and allowed to participate fully in the fellowship.”

“Wait.” Diagos swallowed the bit of quail he’d been chewing, then lifted a dark brow. “You mentioned something ‘to come.’ Are these people organizing an insurrection? Do they want to overthrow the king?”

Surprise blossomed on Simeon’s face. “They are expecting the arrival of Messiah. And the birth pangs that will precede Him.”

Diagos and I stared at the teacher, waiting for an explanation.

Simeon sighed, clearly dismayed by our ignorance. “The Teacher of Righteousness speaks often about the age of tribulation and the birth pangs of the Messiah. We hope to emerge from the age of tribulation into the age of messianic perfection.”

I had a hundred questions, so I chose one at random. “Who is the Teacher of Righteousness?”

“What is the age of tribulation?” Diagos asked.

I smiled. “Perfection? What do you mean by perfection?”

Simeon lifted his hands. “This is why you should join one of the haverim. You will find answers to these questions and others you did not even know you had.”

I turned to Diagos. “Will you consider it?”

He shook his head. “My place is with the king. In fact, tomorrow I must go with him to Galilee.”

I shifted my gaze to Simeon. “Perhaps I will join one of your fellowships—if they will have me.”

“A willing and repentant heart,” he said, folding his hands, “they will not turn away.”

And so Jannaeus’s reign began, progressing in the same pattern our lives had taken when we lived in Galilee. My husband went out to conquer cities and left me to care for the children and fulfill many of his duties. Yet this time we were managing the affairs of a nation, not only a region, and the stakes involved millions of lives.

Jannaeus did not return to Jerusalem during those early years, but frequently sent Ezra Diagos to inquire of matters concerning the Holy City. I would speak to Diagos in the reception room while scribes took notes, and then I would entertain him at a banquet with other leading officials. I understood the importance of maintaining the appearance of propriety, so I made sure the chief priests and other members of the Sanhedrin heard Diagos’s glowing reports from the battlefield.

One night, however, after a banquet had ended, Diagos motioned for me to step onto the balcony where we could talk privately. “I must tell you the truth about the battle for Ptolemais,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I don’t know if you have heard other reports from the battlefield—”

“Nothing other than what you have told me,” I interrupted. “No one else speaks to me of war. I have no idea what is happening outside Jerusalem.”

As he stood in the moonlight, his face transformed, the handsome and polished veneer peeling back to reveal the frustration beneath. “I am not surprised. I am sure the king does not want you to know everything that has happened. But the war is coming to you, and you should be prepared for it.”

I stared, tongue-tied, as Diagos told me that Jannaeus had not only failed at capturing Ptolemais, but might have doomed Judea in the attempt. His siege of the port city had gone well until the people of Ptolemais sought help from Ptolemy Soter, a deposed Egyptian king and son to Cleopatra III. Eager to command a force large enough to unseat his mother and his brother, a co-ruler of Egypt, Soter sailed from Cyprus to Ptolemais. But by the time he arrived, the citizens of Ptolemais had realized that by inviting Soter to defend them, they might antagonize Cleopatra III of Egypt, and no one wanted to ruffle the feathers of that fiery queen. When Soter arrived, they refused to let him enter their city.

“Jannaeus,” Diagos continued, leaning on the balcony railing, “realized he had inadvertently become involved in a war between Egyptian royals. So while he talked peace with Soter, he sent a negotiator to pacify Cleopatra.”

I recognized my husband’s error at once. “Surely he didn’t think he could keep his double-dealing from—”

“He realized his mistake soon enough. When Soter learned that your husband had played false with him, he vented his wrath on Judea, beginning in Galilee. He and his army have killed hundreds of Judeans.”

“Sepphoris,” I whispered, thinking of the town and the people I had grown to love. “Did he—?”

“He tried to attack that city. But he could not breach the walls, so he crossed the Jordan in hopes of picking up allies from the Seleucid towns. His plan, I believe, is to sweep through Judea, capture Jerusalem, and threaten Cleopatra from a position of power.”

My throat, which had tightened, suddenly went dry. “And what was my husband doing during this rout of our territory?”

Diagos’s jaw tightened. “The king is fighting. Your husband has brave warriors, but Soter’s troops overcame them. In one battle, Soter’s mercenaries chased the army of Judea until their swords were blunt from killing. We lost more than forty thousand men.”

I clung to the balcony railing for support. Forty thousand? Diagos was not describing a battle but a bloodbath.

“That is not the worst of it.”

I stepped back, not wanting to hear anything else, but Diagos was determined that I should know all.

“Soter came upon several small Judean villages filled with women and children. He commanded his soldiers to strangle them and cut their bodies into pieces, then to fling the remains into cauldrons over the cook fires. He wanted any Judean who escaped the battle to come home and assume that Soter and his men were cannibals. Soter intends to terrify our people into submission.”

I closed my eyes against the horrific image of butchered women and babies. “Please.” The word came out strangled. “Stop.”

Diagos lowered his voice. “This is the nature of war, my queen, and you must face this reality. Now Soter controls Ptolemais and the regions to the north. Your husband will be unable to halt the enemy’s advance toward Jerusalem, and Soter is determined to wreak even more havoc in the days ahead.”

I turned and stared at the commander, who was looking at me with a cold, hard expression. Why had he shared these horrible stories? My uncle, who had seen more than his share of war, had never brought home such bloody tales. How could I have ever called this man a friend?

“Why are you being so cruel? You should not have shared these things with me.”

“Someone must speak the truth, and your husband will not. He is too afraid of the inevitable, but you, Salome, have backbone. You have courage; I have seen it flash in your eyes.” He stepped forward, so close I could see the mingling of brown and gold flecks in his eyes. “Of all the people in Jerusalem, you and I know the king is a fool. But hope is not lost, for you can influence him like no one else. I watched you in Galilee. I saw you solve problems and allow Jannaeus to take the credit.”

“Much has changed since then,” I said, turning away from his powerful gaze. “My husband no longer cares for me, but for his concubines.”

“I do not care who sleeps in his bed. I care about who he respects, and he does respect you. You must make it your job to know everything happening in Judea so that you can counsel him. If you do not save him, he will be overthrown, and some other family will rise to power, though not without war and struggle and much unnecessary bloodshed. Our lives—the fate of Israel—depend on your efforts.”

The thought was so ridiculous I almost laughed, and yet I saw nothing humorous in his statement. Could Diagos be right? I had been the guiding hand behind Jannaeus in Galilee, but he had been little more than a boy in those days. Now he was a man and even less inclined to listen to me.

I looked at the commander. “You do not know what you are asking. Jannaeus has withdrawn from me. He has changed; he is now much more ruthless and ambitious.”

“Then you must draw close to him. Take his part, become indispensable. Because Cleopatra has sent her son and co-ruler, Ptolemy Alexander, to our territory in pursuit of Soter. Her army and Soter’s are fighting each other on Judean soil, and our people are suffering for it. You can be sure that the victor in this struggle, whomever it may be, will claim Judea.”

I recoiled, stepping backward until my legs hit a stone bench, then I staggered and fell onto it. “What . . . what are we to do? What am I to do?”

Diagos locked his hands behind his back and stared into the gathering darkness. After a long moment, he dipped his chin in a decisive nod. “You must convince your husband to go to the victor and beg for his country. They have been fighting for months, and the struggle cannot continue much longer.”

“I cannot imagine Jannaeus begging.”

“But he must. Call it what you will, paint it in any terms you like, but if you would save the Holy City, the king will have to go to the victor as a supplicant. If he does not, all will be lost.”

Diagos turned, and something in his dark eyes softened when he saw the expression on my face. “Fear not,” he said, “for if HaShem smiles on you, the battle will go to Cleopatra, who respects the Jewish people. She may accept the king’s plea for mercy.”

I buried my face in my hands. “You have no idea what you are asking. I have not seen Jannaeus in months.”

“You must go to him. Like Esther, who went to the king unbidden, you must put away your fears and seek his company.” Diagos bowed slightly. “In truth, that is why I came to Jerusalem. I came here to ask if you would allow me to escort you to the king, so you can convince him to save Judea.”

After a long interval, during which I prayed for courage and wisdom, I rose on shaky legs and gave the commander a stiff nod, then turned toward the banquet chamber. “I will depart with you tomorrow,” I said, my voice breaking. “But now you must leave me to my prayers.”

The War of the Scepters, as it would later be called, raged for nearly three years. Jannaeus and the remainder of his army tried to defend the people of Judea as opposing Egyptian armies waged war on the land HaShem had promised to Israel.

As Diagos suggested, I left my children in Kissa’s care and traveled with him to the battlefield. I found the Judean army dwelling in tents in the region of the Galilee. I did not visit Jannaeus when I arrived but went immediately to the tent Diagos had set aside for my use.

I knew I would have to approach Jannaeus carefully. If he suspected the reason for my arrival, he would have settled into obstinacy and refused to see me. I would have to convince my husband that I had come because I longed for his company—an idea that would please him even if the feeling were not reciprocated. I would have to be as persuasive as Eve, as charming as Esther, and as determined as Jael when she hammered the tent stake into Sisera’s skull.

After three days, Diagos entered my tent and announced that the king wished to see me. “Does he know why I have come?” I asked.

A smile flashed in Diagos’s beard. “He was informed of your arrival on your first day in camp. I am sure he was curious, but he did not ask. Yesterday he asked if you were well, and I assured him you were. Today he asked why you had come, and I suggested that he ask you himself. So if you are ready . . .”

I stood, smoothed my tunic, and touched the fragile curls I had pinned in my hair. Dressing was not easy without a maid, but I would rather Kissa care for my boys than bring her to a battlefield. On the other hand, Jannaeus cared deeply about physical appearances, so I could not risk looking less than my best.

Ezra Diagos led the way to the king’s tent, but I entered alone and bowed before my husband. “Salome,” he said, his voice seeming to come from a great distance. “Why have you left the safety of the city to come here?”

I lifted my head and gave him a sincere smile. “Can a wife not wish to see her husband?”

“Are the children well?”

“Yes, my king.”

“And the affairs of Jerusalem? Are the chief priests causing trouble?”

I shook my head. “Not at the moment. I am happy to report that even the Pharisees and scribes seem to be at peace with one another.”

“A momentary peace, to be sure.”

I nodded. “I am certain you are right.”

“You may rise.”

I nodded and stood, then gestured to an empty chair. “May I sit?”

Jannaeus’s brows rushed together, but then he nodded and sat as well.

I smoothed my gown and met my husband’s eyes. “I have heard, husband, of many deaths in Judea. I have heard that this Ptolemy Soter has terrorized our people and waged war against his mother on our land.”

Steadily holding my gaze, Jannaeus nodded.

“I also know that Cleopatra III has always been a friend to Israel. She has Jewish commanders in her army and has always been kind to the Jews residing in Alexandria. Having her as an ally would be good for Judea—as I am sure you are aware.”

He nodded once more. “I know all this.”

“I knew you would.” I smiled, remembering several Egyptian caravans that had arrived at the high priest’s palace. Egyptian dignitaries often visited John Hyrcanus, though young Jannaeus had never seemed to pay them any attention.

“Ptolemy Soter will never be a friend to Israel,” I continued. “I am sure you have realized that it is in our best interests to meet with Cleopatra. Promise her whatever you must in order to win her affection. Only then, I fear, will Judea be safe from Egyptian domination.”

The line of my husband’s mouth tightened, and a muscle flicked at his jaw. The idea had to be repugnant to a man who saw himself as Alexander the Great, but surely he would realize that capitulation was the only way to achieve any sort of victory.

“Egypt was once our taskmaster,” he said with a credible attempt at calm, marred only by the thickness in his voice. “How can the high priest of Israel willingly kneel before an Egyptian queen? What would the people say?”

I smiled. “The people do not need to know what happens between you and Cleopatra. What they will know is that you negotiated a peace, and Soter left our land. They will be grateful for your skills as a diplomat, and they will revere you as high priest and king.”

“Do you think I care about what the people think?”

I closed my eyes lest he glimpse the storm raging in my soul. Jannaeus did not care if the people thought him a murderer, an adulterer, and a blasphemer, but he would care a great deal if they despised him enough to overthrow him. And they would surely reach that point if he did not convince the Egyptians to leave Judea.

“The time has come,” I announced, firming my voice, “and you must visit Cleopatra. Any delay gives her more time to see how pleasant this land is, and how easily she could expand her territory.”

“I cannot do it.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “How can I lower myself to beg for what is already mine?”

“Because tomorrow it may not be yours,” I said. “I have heard that some of the queen’s counselors are urging her to annex Judea. What would become of our Promised Land if she did? The blasphemies committed by Antiochus Epiphanes would pale in comparison to the blasphemies of an Egyptian queen and her pantheon of foreign gods.”

“Out!” I flinched as Jannaeus lifted his arm and pointed to the guards stationed at the doorway of his tent. “All of you, out!”

The guards and servants bowed and hastily retreated, leaving us alone.

“You must gather gifts for her,” I said, softening my voice, “and you must have your servants polish your armor. You will take gold and silver and pearls—the finest you can procure—and you must not wait. Delay could be fatal . . . for all of us.”

Jannaeus leaned forward in his chair and covered his face with his hands. For a moment I thought he might weep, but then he lifted his head. “Alexander was never brought so low,” he said, staring at something beyond my field of vision. “His wife never told him what to do.”

I could have said so many things. I could have chided him for coveting a Gentile city, for misleading Soter while negotiating with Cleopatra, and for not adequately protecting the ravaged villages of Galilee. Instead, I thought it wiser to soothe him.

“Alexander’s generals told him what to do,” I said. “And your general, Ezra Diagos, has already sent a message to the queen. Together we will go to Scythopolis in Samaria, where Cleopatra waits for you.”

“The Samaritans hate me,” Jannaeus mumbled. “They have not yet forgiven my father for destroying their temple.”

“If you want to retain your position,” I said, reminding him that the stakes were personal as well as national, “you will kneel before her and offer your gifts. Then you will go home to Jerusalem and rule your people well.”

He pressed his hands together and sighed, then looked up at me. “It will be as you say, Salome. I have no other choice.”

I bowed and gave him a genuine smile. “Honor HaShem, husband, and know that I support you now even as I did in Galilee. When this is over, you will be as beloved as you were in those days.”

Offering him hope and the promise of adulation, I left my husband alone in his tent.