Chapter Thirty-Four

Shelamzion

Amid great celebration, Jannaeus and I returned to Jerusalem. People lined the streets waving palm branches as we entered the city, and the cheers continued until we passed through the gate at the high priest’s palace. Even our servants were jubilant, apparently believing their king had won a great victory over the Egyptians.

Only a handful of us knew that Cleopatra had gone back to Alexandria because she was a wise woman who prized peace. No one outside the king’s inner circle knew that Jannaeus had groveled before the Egyptian queen and promised to send her an annual tribute of gold if she would allow him to retain his position and power.

Cleopatra had looked at me as my husband knelt at her feet, and from her expression I could see that she understood more than she would admit. Like me, she stood as an older wife behind an impetuous young co-ruler. “Alexander Jannaeus,” she said, her throaty voice rolling like thunder through the room, “I will let you keep your kingdom if you agree to this treaty. You will not engage any Egyptian army in battle. You will not infringe upon our territory, and in the spring of each year you will send us one hundred pounds of gold.”

Jannaeus bowed his head. “I will agree to your terms.”

I gave the queen a look of relieved thanks, which she acknowledged with the smallest softening of her eyes. Then I folded my hands and waited for my husband to stand and put his signature on the document.

Cleopatra and Jannaeus had signed the treaty, and I could see great value in it. One hundred pounds of gold was but a token gesture to remind Jannaeus that he remained in Cleopatra’s debt. The treaty gave us a secure western border and would keep my husband from the battlefield. Jannaeus’s pride might have suffered in his encounter with the Egyptian queen, but Judea would survive, and that mattered more than anything else.

Only after disembarking from the coach did I spot Kissa with my sons. I knelt and greeted the boys with open arms. I wanted to sit and listen to all their stories, yet something in Kissa’s usually pleasant expression seemed off.

“I will find you later,” I told my sons. “Run along while I speak to Kissa.”

As I turned to face my handmaid, I noticed several hired mourners in the courtyard. They were not wailing but sat silently . . . as if waiting. Cold fingertips skipped down my spine. “Who died?”

Kissa lowered her head. “Your mother.”

I blinked. “Was she ill?”

Kissa sighed heavily. “You have been away many weeks. Your mother grew weaker and could not get out of her bed. In the end, she could not—would not—eat. She died on Shabbat, several weeks ago.”

I nodded as the world spun slowly around me. “Is she . . . can you take me to her?”

“Come with me,” Kissa said.

Not knowing when I would return, Kissa had asked an embalmer to prepare my mother’s body. Mother now lay on a table in an empty storage room, her only company the statue of my dead sister.

I blew out a breath when I saw it. “Where did that come from?”

Kissa folded her arms. “One of the slaves found it at the bottom of a trash heap. He remembered your mother having it when—”

“I remember.” I gazed at the carved stone and wondered if its perfect face would ever match that of an actual human girl. “When Mother was sick, did she call for me? Tell me the truth, please.”

Kissa drew a deep breath, then exhaled in a rush. “Your mother called for Ketura. She spoke to her as if she were in the room. She slipped away, a little more each day, until she breathed her last.”

I swiped at the tears clinging to my lower lashes. My tears did not spring from a sudden realization that I would no longer have my mother’s love, for I had never really possessed it. She had given all her love to Ketura and had none left for me.

But HaShem had not left me wanting. My father had loved me dearly, and Uncle had always spoken to me with respect and affection. Alena had been fond of me, and Kissa had remained by my side for years.

“Have her placed in the royal tomb,” I said. “And you had better return that”—I nodded to the statue—“to the garbage heap. Others would not understand.”

Kissa nodded. “I will see to it.”

I left the storage room and realized I was crying only when I felt full, round drops running over my cheeks. I did not weep for myself. Long ago I had learned how to make my own way in the world. I wept for my mother, who wanted more than anything to see one of her daughters grow up and marry a wealthy man with power and position. She had pinned all her hopes on Ketura, and so great was her blind obstinacy that she was not aware when her dreams and yearnings were fulfilled in a totally unexpected way.

“Good-bye, Ima,” I whispered as I wiped the wetness from my cheeks. “Thank you for teaching me to always keep my eyes open to the workings of HaShem in the world.”