A.D. 30(47)

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.

“It is a wonder to behold.”

“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?”