CHAPTER TWELVE
THE CITY OF SEPPHORIS in Galilee was by any standard expansive and stunning. Saba knew the city well enough, having been twice with caravans from the Far East across the northern trade route, which ran through Mesopotamia.
My only adequate comparison was that majestic city called Memphis, which lay south of my Roman master’s country estate. As a slave I had been to Memphis twice.
Though smaller, Sepphoris was just as grand. There could not have been a greater disparity between the tiny hole called Nazareth and that modern city on a hill called Sepphoris. Saba said more than thirty thousand lived here, nearly half as many as lived in Jerusalem.
Where Nazareth consisted of a few humble homes made of mud, dung, and reeds, couched together with common courtyards for communal cooking, Herod’s ornament of Galilee was a walled city of Roman design, newly constructed of limestone blocks and the hardest woods.
But it was the makeup of the population that set Sepphoris apart from Nazareth. Before entering the city, I had seen only the poor; Sepphoris was inhabited also by those of great wealth.
The poor were nearly all Jewish. They mingled with the rich only in the markets and on the streets.
According to Saba the rich were in equal parts rich Jewish landowners and foreigners—Arabians, Greeks, and Romans, the latter being primarily soldiers.
We approached from the east along a low ridge. Here a covered aqueduct flowed with clean water from a massive limestone reservoir farther east. Then we passed through the eastern gate, which was flanked by two tall, square towers guarded by Roman soldiers. These were dressed in leather skirts, breastplates, helmets, and red capes.
A soldier gave us a cursory look, then turned away, evidently seeing no harm in three Arabians on camels with only saddlebags.
Guards were posted upon the wall at long intervals around the entire city. No one could possibly approach Sepphoris without being seen or challenged.
“Do not worry, Maviah,” Saba said as we passed into the city, for he could see that I was unnerved by the scale of it. “Remember that you are protected by Varus and are friend to Herod.”
“These soldiers are yours to command,” Judah agreed, but this was only his bravado speaking, for I commanded no one but him, and then only in private.
Beyond the gate the stone-paved road took us to a plaza where Jewish farmers sold their produce—mostly beans, melons, olives, wheat, and lentils from what I could see. The city was made of many houses, apartments, and shops constructed along the main street, which ran east-west and ascended a switchback rise to the towering wall at the city center.
My eyes were on this wall as we passed through the market. The towering structures of Herod’s acropolis, a royal city within a city, were clearly in view beyond the wall.
We were surrounded by the hustle and bustle of merchants, many of them aided by young boys, each urging us to buy his produce or wares. It was a larger, louder version of the scene that had greeted us in Nazareth.
“Ignore them,” Judah said, eyes on the acropolis. “Remember who you are.”
Yes, of course. I was a queen. And so I rode on, shoulders fixed, head straight, breathing calmly though my heart raced. Even so, I could not hide my interest in certain distinguished men who wore long white robes, and shawls with tassels and blue stripes. Small black boxes were strapped to their foreheads.
“They carry scrolls with prayers,” Judah said, noticing my interest in the boxes. “These are the holy men of Israel who follow the Law without error.”
And were proud to do so, I thought. I dared not attract their attention. Women were not permitted to look men in the eye, Saba had said.
We had discussed our entry into Herod’s courts. Aware that once we reached the gate to the acropolis we would be challenged by the guard, we had decided that I, not Judah or Saba, was the one who must show authority. Saba had given me the dagger of Varus, now at my side. And so it was with my role in mind that I directed my camel to the Roman guard who stood before the massive oak gate.
One wearing a red cape stepped forward when it became clear that my intention was to enter. “What is your business here?” he demanded. His eyes flickered over Judah and Saba behind me.
“My name is Maviah, daughter of Rami bin Malik in Dumah,” I said. “I have come for an audience with Herod, tetrarch of Galilee and Perea.”
A faint smile crossed his face. “Herod?”
“Does he not rule here?”
A guard behind him chuckled. In that moment I reached inside my mind and traded myself for the Roman mistress I’d served as a slave in Egypt—a powerful woman unlike any I had since known.
“Does the daughter of a king look like a whore to you, Roman?”
He appeared unimpressed, so I continued.
“And if I am Herod’s whore, would you deny him his lusts?”
“Then you don’t know that Herod has no whores who pass through this gate. Nor queens without Roman guard.”
“I have no Roman guard because I have brought my own slaves, each with the strength of ten Roman soldiers, as you can see.”
I held his gaze, boldly challenging him. Was this not what a queen would say?
The guard’s lips flattened. “You should watch your tongue here.”
“And you yours,” I said.
His expression soured and I knew I’d pushed the boundaries. So I calmly withdrew the dagger of Varus from my sash and held it out.
“Since you doubt my honor.”
He glanced at it, then took the knife and inspected the hilt, which clearly showed the crest of Varus. Another soldier had approached and peered at the dagger.
“What is it?”
“The insignia of Varus.” My interrogator looked up at me. “Where did you get this?”
“My father, ruler of Arabia, was given it for audience with Rome as required. It was Rami bin Malik’s victory with Varus at his side that allowed Herod to build Sepphoris.”
There was still doubt in the soldier’s eyes, but his contempt was gone, for he was surely familiar enough with the city’s history to know it had been burned to the ground before Rome gave Herod charge over Galilee.
He passed the dagger to the other soldier. “We will see if Herod agrees.”
“Of course. We will wait.”
As the second soldier headed for a horse tied by a smaller gate, I nudged my camel to turn. Then, on second thought, I glanced back.
“We’ve been on a long journey with urgent business and the sun is hot today. Please keep that in mind.”
I did not glance at Judah or Saba until we retreated to the shade of a palm, out of the guard’s hearing. Even then I turned my gaze to the gate, where the soldier looked my way, having dispatched his companion to Herod’s court.
Judah whistled under his breath. “And now the star shines.”
I fought my worry. “It wasn’t too much?”
“It appears not.”
“Be careful,” Saba said. “Such men shouldn’t be crossed.”
His words pricked me. “Then I overstepped.”
“Don’t fill her mind with worry, Saba,” Judah hissed. “She does only what comes naturally.”
He was wrong. I felt no more natural here than I might have stepping from a boat into the sea having never learned to swim. And yet I sat still and erect. The soldiers were watching.
Neither Judah nor Saba made mention of my calling them my slaves, which had come from me without forethought, because it was natural for a queen to be accompanied by such strong men. Judah would have no trouble, but Saba surely swallowed the notion of being slave to a woman with some difficulty.
Still, he played his role in service to his master, Rami, with grace.
We waited for nearly an hour before the soldier who’d been dispatched returned and gave his verdict to the other, who then motioned to us.
Again we approached, and this time he waved for the gate to open. “Quintus will take you.”
And so we entered the acropolis, inner city to Herod, Jewish ruler of Galilee under the authority of Rome. The soldier rode in silence several lengths before us, leading us over the clean-swept streets, in no hurry.
We passed magnificent villas like none we’d yet seen. Herod had indeed built his seat of power using impressive Roman and Greek architecture. Tall palms swayed in the wind along narrow canals and around pools. I felt as though I had entered an oasis, though we were high on a hill.
The cobbled way led past a massive circular theater with towering walls. Johnin, father of my son, had been killed in one such Roman arena.
A team of slaves worked at a wooden structure the height of fifteen men, an irrigation waterwheel. Its buckets lifted water from an aqueduct on the acropolis wall to suspended troughs, which I assumed fed pools and cisterns at the palace’s highest point. Many stone columns rose along the causeway, supporting covered walkways.
According to Saba, Herod had spent thirty years building the city, and I could now see why so much effort had been required, surely on the backs of Jewish workers. Perhaps Miriam’s son, Yeshua, had learned a disdain for Roman oppression here, on these very streets.
When we came to the entrance to the royal court, Quintus handed us off to another soldier, this one in black leathers. The palace guard, I guessed. Quintus dipped his head in respect, uttered the man’s name, “Brutus,” then turned his horse and left.
By the scar over his right eye and another visible below his sleeve, this one called Brutus appeared to have seen his share of battle. He had limbs like small trees and towered over a normal man. He was as tall as Saba. But he did not possess Saba’s placid demeanor. The scowl on his face looked fixed.
“Leave the beasts here,” he ordered. “With your weapons.”
We offered no objection, though I knew that both Judah and Saba might just as well have been asked to disrobe in public. I could see Saba’s jaw flex as he removed the two knives at his waist and the bow upon his back and carefully placed them in his saddlebag.
Thus stripped, we followed the brute past armed guards, up a sweep of marble steps, and to a great atrium. Its towering dome was supported by columns that surrounded a fountain and pool. We kept going, up another wide staircase also flanked by guards in full regalia, then through the entrance into Herod’s villa.
The grand room into which we were led had a polished marble floor with yet another, smaller pool at its center. Herod clearly had an obsession with water, which was life. A curved stairway on either side of the expansive hall rose to the second-story walkway, which encircled the room. Ahead, yet more steps led to what I assumed would be the inner sanctum.
Everywhere I looked I saw frescos and tall decorative vessels. The railing was trimmed in silver polished by servants. The frescos were embedded with precious stones and framed by velvet curtains.
My first sight of Herod’s palace took my breath away, and I stopped for a moment. This then was what so many taxes had purchased for the ruler of Galilee.
“This way,” Brutus said.
Neither Judah nor Saba spoke, but I could hear them breathing close behind, surely as impressed as I. Or as affronted.
We were led around the pool, up the broad steps flanked by yet more guards, and into Herod’s living quarters. By the looks of the long carved dining table to the right and the groupings of upholstered chairs about the room, he met with dignitaries and entertained private guests here.
The oil lamps on the tables and the walls were all silver. Copious draperies of rich red and green velvet were suspended from the ceiling between windows that peered out on an expansive view so high above the city.
Herod stood by a table with his back to us, pouring wine from a pitcher into a silver chalice. He wore a purple robe with a golden sash and his feet were bare on the polished floor. Apart from the guard and two servants who worked over the table, freshening offerings of grapes, olives, and cheese, we were alone with him.
“As you requested, my lord,” Brutus announced. “The Bedu.” He stepped to one side.
I had applied the frankincense upon rising and Judah had helped me with the strings of black stones about my forehead and around my neck, then assured me that I was a stunning sight to behold. But in this extravagant palace, my white linen dress and olive mantle only humbled me.
“So…” Herod’s voice filled the room. Back still to us, he picked up the dagger of Varus, looked at it curiously for a moment, then unceremoniously dropped it into a chest by his feet.
“Maviah, queen of the desert.”
He turned slowly, then lifted the chalice to his lips, his piercing amber eyes never leaving mine.
By any measure Herod was a handsome, powerfully built man. His trimmed beard and wavy hair were nearly black, though I knew he’d lived fifty years.
His robe hung loosely over his shoulders, as if he’d only just risen and shrugged into it, but his hair was oiled. Two golden rings, one with a ruby, the other ornately fashioned, hugged strong fingers. He held his goblet with grace.
He wore his authority with careless confidence, like a man who was bored with his command. I was immediately reminded of how powerless I was in his court. Fear whispered through my bones, mocking me.
You are a fool, Maviah, a powerless woman in this world of kingdoms ruled by ruthless men.
But I refused to show my fear.
The tetrarch lowered his silver goblet and glanced briefly at Judah and Saba behind me, but his eyes returned to me immediately. I thought wine might spill to the floor for the way he let his cup dangle from his fingers.
“And tell me, queen where there is no queen, what brings you to this godforsaken land?”
I was taken aback.
“Hmmm? An old dagger that appears to be from the Roman governor who handed me this razed city? That is why you have come? To give me what is mine?”
“No, my lord. I come for audience with you.”
“An audience? Rami sends his daughter from so deep in the desert as a gift for me? To what end?”
“Not as a gift. Only to present his word.”
“And yet Rami doesn’t present himself. You think I don’t know the way of the Bedu? A sheikh would never send his daughter to do his bidding unless he had no other choice. Or is it that your father thinks so little of Galilee?”
“He thinks of you only in the highest terms,” I said. “Or I would not be standing before you after so many weeks of travel. You misunderstand who I am.”
For a moment I thought I might have offended him. But then a coy smile twisted his lips, and he approached slowly.
“Is that so? Then tell me more about yourself, Queen Maviah. I know all about your father’s valiant efforts under the command of Aretas, who served Varus. And as you can see”—he spread his arms—“I have not wasted his victory. Tell me, do you like my city?”
He spoke in a different way from those of the desert, more like the Romans, I thought.
“As you say, you haven’t wasted my father’s victory.”
“Nor has your father wasted his bravery. You know, I assume, that Aretas is the father of my own wife, Phasa.”
“Yes.”
“As I understand it, he repaid Rami well. Your father now controls the great trade route through Dumah, living comfortably on the taxes he imposes.”
Herod stopped not three feet from me, studying my face and my shoulders with eyes that saw through me. I could smell the luxurious ointments that bathed his skin. He lifted his hand and ran the back of his fingers over my cheek. I immediately thought to withdraw, but I dared not.
“I had no idea such beauty could come from so deep in the desert,” he said softly, as if speaking to himself. “With a proper bath and a little care, my slaves would transform you into the most stunning woman in all of Palestine.”
He lowered his hand.
“But we were discussing why Rami would send his mysterious daughter, not to Aretas, his advocate, but to me, whom he does not know. What business could your father possibly want with me, other than to woo me?”
I did not know Herod’s full history, only what Saba had told me. Whereas this tetrarch’s father, also called Herod, had been a tyrant, Herod Antipas was by comparison a gentle man who had caused no great trouble. And yet among kings even the gentle might be ruthless.
I had expected a display of power, not such a smooth tongue.
He glanced over my shoulder in Judah’s direction. “And he sent you with a warrior who doesn’t like me touching you. Tell me, is it common among Bedu queens to so easily love common Jews?”
Whether he was mocking us or merely playing with us, I didn’t know, but I could imagine the storm boiling in Judah’s veins, and my instinct was to protect him.
“My slave is none of your business,” I said.
He lowered his hand. “No? Now you misunderstand me, Queen. You see, everything in Galilee is my business. Not the least of which is the presence of such a beautiful woman in my courts.”
He looked at Judah again. “You are a Jew. I am your king?”
Judah answered slowly, only to keep peace.
“Yes.”
“Good. Then you know your place.” He addressed me, mirth gone. “Now, let’s stop playing games. Tell me what has happened in Dumah to cause Rami to send a slave to do his bidding.”
He knew that I’d been a slave? My anger fell from me, replaced by dread. But of course he knew. Herod was as shrewd as any sheikh. If I had felt humbled before, I now stood as if naked before him.
I found that I could not speak. The full reality of my true identity had been exposed before not only his eyes, but my own.
He turned his back to me and walked to the window. “Join me, Queen.”
I glanced at Judah, who offered me a slight nod and an encouraging smile. His self-restraint made him as strong as Herod.
I crossed to the window and my gaze followed Herod’s. Below us lay the large theater. Its rows of seats sloped up to a covered colonnade that faced not grounds for battle, but a stage with tall columns and arched entrances from the side and the back.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“I built it after the Theater of Marcellus in Rome, designed by Marcus Vitruvius Pollio, architect to Augustus, the same architect who designed the waterworks under Rome.” He looked at me. “Did you know that I was educated in Rome when I was young?”
“No.”
“No. But then you hardly know me at all. That must change if I am to trust you.” He nodded at the arena. “Tell me, have you ever seen good hypocrites on the stage?”
“I’ve heard of them.”
“There is no finer entertainment in all of Galilee. Only the best of all hypocrites may take my stage. They take their roles seriously and perform perfectly, so one forgets that the role they play is not who they truly are.” He paused, then spoke softly. “You, on the other hand, are not the best of hypocrites. But I like you, so I will accept you as a queen.” He looked at me. “Fair enough?”
“I am grateful.”
He reached up and slipped my mantle off my hair so that it rested on my shoulders.
“If you are here to play the part, then you must look like a queen, my dear. These clothes will not do. And we must have you properly bathed.”
“Yes.” I was mortified and attempted to say what I’d come to say so that I could leave. “My father—”
“Did you know that my mother was a Samaritan? An outcast in the eyes of most Jews.”
He put his hands on his hips and stepped alongside the window, gazing down at the workers who slaved to repair the massive waterwheel behind the arena.
“Forgive me, I did not.”
“My mother was a Samaritan and my father was a monster who killed more Jews to maintain his seat of power than might die of natural causes in any year. My wife is a Nabataean. So you see, I am ruined from the start.” He turned to me. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
Herod’s words sought to trap me, I thought. Or perhaps he was only looking for acceptance from someone who, like him, wore the cloak of shame among his own. I decided to offer grace to the man.
“I’m sorry.”
“Do you know the problem with most Jews, Maviah?”
“No.”
“They are terrified of being unclean. Even my insistence that you bathe is a part of the curse of my religion.”
“I too would bathe,” I said, hoping to move past his confession. “Is it so wrong?”
He ignored my question, for Herod heard only himself.
“Our God demands the highest forms of cleanliness. To be unclean is to be cursed and punished by God himself. He judges the unclean and commands his children to resist any who want to take his Holy Land. It is said that any illness or misfortune is God’s punishment for uncleanliness. And do you know what makes one unclean?”
“Only what—”
“Many foods are unclean and cannot be touched. No food may be eaten without first the washing of hands. Breaking bread with sinners and the unclean also makes one unclean. All foreigners are unclean and must not be touched. Menstruating women are unclean. Anyone who touches a menstruating woman is unclean. Women who have given birth are unclean—forty days if they have a son and eighty if they have a daughter, because daughters are not as valuable as sons, it is said. Anyone who touches a corpse is unclean. Anyone who touches someone who’s touched a corpse is also unclean. Anyone with a rash or fungus or skin disease, all such conditions which they call leprosy, is banished from the household and forced to wear rags and walk about crying, ‘Unclean.’ The laws are endless. For a rich man to follow them all is difficult enough; for the poor it is nearly impossible. What do you make of this?”
I chose my words carefully, because I knew that Herod, as well as Rome, was responsible for that poverty.
“I think that perhaps the Jewish god is the most demanding of all gods. Better to have the choice of many gods so as not to be victim of one who offers so little mercy. And yet the Bedu, too, resist any who take their land.”
He raised his brow. “So the queen is as insightful as she is beautiful. You see? It is always this insane fear of one god or another that precipitates conflict. If the Jews weren’t enslaved to their code of conduct for fear of their God, they wouldn’t harbor such vitriol at this Roman occupation. It would make my life so much more simple. Truly, they are more enslaved to their fear of God’s disfavor than to Rome, which occupies many lands that don’t hate it so much. Rome builds roads and provides security and opportunity in exchange for a simple tax. Still the Jews insist on rebellion for fear of God.”
“No man takes kindly to being under the fist of another,” I said. “The Bedu must remain free or they die.”
“Yes, the Bedu. And the Jew. And you, Maviah, for you are a woman under the fist of all men.”
I felt unexpectedly appreciative of his insight and this attempt to find a common ground between us.
He sighed. “But take courage. I don’t take the way of the Jews so seriously as their religious leaders. To touch a foreign woman does not sentence me to suffering but to passion.”
He smiled at me, then walked to the table that held his wine.
“Now… tell me about your father’s problems.”
Judah and Saba stood still, hearing all of it without any outward reaction, for they too were hypocrites now. Their presence gave me courage.
I stepped to the room’s center, glanced about to be sure no one else had entered, and saw that none had. My audience included Herod, Judah and Saba, the guard Brutus at the entryway, and the silent servant by the table. I could not allow his wife, daughter of Aretas, to hear what I was to say.
“Go on, Maviah.” Herod waved his cup at me. “Don’t be shy. Play your part.”
I ignored his barb.
“You know that my father’s control of the trade route was sealed with his marriage to Nashquya, niece to King Aretas?”
He eyed me and took a drink. “Those crafty Nabataeans—always with the upper hand. Of course I know this.”
“Did you also know that Nasha took sick and has passed?” I said. “And that the Thamud accepted Aretas’s blessing to attack Dumah for control of the trade?”
He stilled with the revelation.
“And Rami?”
“Is taken,” I said. “But he is sheikh of all Kalb and would have his honor restored.”
“Then you’ve come to the wrong king. Petra is your destination.”
“I do not come for Aretas. I come for Rome.”
He spoke after a long pause, cautious now, for there was no end to backstabbing among rulers.
“A slave asks for the world,” he said.
“As you said, we are all slaves. Giving Rome what she has always wanted would not be without its reward. With Rome’s help, all the Kalb under Rami will regain control of Dumah and the trade route. Together the Kalb and Rome would conquer.”
He paced to his left. “And Aretas?”
“If the Kalb and Rome were to join in the desert, no force could stop them, not even Aretas. He would accept the loss to protect his other interests in the west. Furthermore, you would not be harmed. I seek only an audience with Rome.”
I could tell that the idea intrigued him, but Herod was shrewd.
“You underestimate Aretas,” he said. “He is a worthy adversary with more wealth than he knows what to do with. Why do you think Rome keeps going back to him for assistance?”
“Perhaps you underestimate the Kalb, who are as worthy. It is clear that Rome has ambitions beyond the Nabataeans. Perhaps you do as well.”
I could not read him.
“This was Rami’s plan or yours?”
“Both,” I lied. “As you said, though slave, I am queen.”
A voice cut my thoughts short.
“A queen?”
I turned to see a woman walking into the chamber, dressed in a long white gown with a golden mantle draped over her shoulders. Her arms were accented with gold bracelets. She wore a stunning pearl necklace over her breastbone and a band of pure gold about her forehead—appointments that made my own appear as if they’d been drawn from a river. Her skin was olive, betraying her Nabataean heritage, and her eyes were brown, set in a kind face. I thought her to be at least twenty years younger than Herod.
“And who is this beautiful queen gracing Herod’s court?” she said, eyes twinkling like Judah’s stars.
Herod quickly set his goblet down and walked toward her. “My dear Phasa. You brighten my day already.” He swept his arm toward me. “This is Maviah, queen of Arabia.”
Phasaelis glided to me in slippers strapped to her feet with golden ties. “I had not known there was a queen of Arabia as of late.”
I dipped my head. “I am from the Kalb, as far as Dumah.”
“The Kalb. I have heard of no queen among the Kalb. But the Kalb are friend to my father and so friend to me. It is my honor to know you.”
I had to tread carefully. “The honor is mine.”
“What then brings you to this pit of despair called Galilee?” she asked.
Herod caught my eye. “She comes with a gift from her father, Rami.”
“A gift?” Phasa studied me, then let her eyes linger on Judah and Saba before looking at her husband. “For me, I hope.”
“Of course… if you wish.” For a moment I thought she meant Saba and Judah, but Herod set my mind at ease. “She brings the very dagger that Varus gave him when he aided Aretas in driving the Zealots from Sepphoris thirty years ago.”
“I see. A dagger. And to what end is this… gift?”
“To the end that Rami knows how valuable my relationship with your father is,” Herod said. “And his ties with me as well. To the end that we be a family of kings and queens to rule this godforsaken desert.”
Phasa approached me, speaking to her husband without regarding him. “Don’t be silly. You’ve shown no interest in me or my family for years. I doubt that a dagger will change that.”
He stood still, unwilling to challenge her directly in our hearing.
“Please, Phasa… be a good wife and prepare our guest,” he said. “Maviah has traveled many weeks. Tonight we would dine and show our appreciation for her.”
“I’m sure you will.”
I was as surprised by her offhand dismissal of him as by his tolerance of it. She struck me as a woman who accepted but had not yearned for her position here. She, like me, was trapped in her role as a bond maker.
Phasa touched my face with long, slender fingers, perfectly manicured. She smiled. “My dear, you have such fine bones and skin. Don’t you worry, I will make you shine like the stars. If my husband intends to enjoy your company, then I will as well.”
She took my arm in hers and steered me toward the side entrance. “You will see, Maviah… we have the most beautiful baths.”
“And what of my slaves?” I asked.
Herod turned to Brutus. “Take them to the stockade for safekeeping,” he said. “See that they are watered and fed.”
I stopped and turned, horrified by the thought. Saba stood unmoving, as he had since entering. Judah only nodded at me. At their side, Brutus’s smirk expressed a measure of contentment.
“Don’t worry,” Herod said, brow raised over a whimsical grin. “I’m not going to kill them. Only keep them safe.”