The moment Phasa learned I was awake that morning of Herod’s departure, she had swept in to collect me, joyous as a bird on the banks of the Nile. Her husband was gone and she could fly. But her high spirits in the days that followed could not put the wind beneath my wings.
I told myself that I was in Galilee only to avenge my son’s death and bring salvation to the Kalb, not to be with Judah. But I failed to convince my heart to join my mind in this matter.
In much the same way that Herod seemed enslaved by his need for love, I was caged in that palace and my heart was captive to Judah more than to my greater purpose.
Who was this man who’d swallowed my heart? I had known Judah only for a few weeks, and passion was not a sign of strength among women in the desert. Perhaps I had bonded with him only because I’d lost my child and needed comfort. Perhaps I sought in such a strong man a new father to replace the one who’d rejected me. But I thought neither of these possibilities pointed to the greater truth.
For in greater truth I was a woman so thirsty for companionship that she could no longer keep her mind fully fixed on the journey ahead.
Was this not true of all? Of Herod and Phasa and me? Did not we all long for what we could not have? So, then… I pitied us all.
It was Brutus who had ordered my separation from Judah in Herod’s absence. Phasa told me this. Herod had only insisted that I remain in the palace and that Judah and Saba be kept in their cells. There was no reason except spite that Brutus would prohibit either Phasa or me from visiting the dungeons. My bitterness toward Herod’s guard grew.
The daughter of Aretas smothered me with kindness and lavish comforts, insisting that I sleep in her chambers and bathe in her bath, attended by her servants. I put on my bravest face, relishing her comfort as much as I could, for I would not allow my heavy heart to unseat her from her perch.
So I spent my time listening to her speak of Petra, which she missed terribly, and of Galilee, which she tolerated, and of the Jews, whom we both agreed had always been an enslaved people—whether under the Egyptians or the Babylonians or Rome, always in the chains of a troubled god who demanded bloodshed in exchange for cleanliness. The Jews, it seemed to me, followed this god out of fear that he would smite his children with the rod of disease, death, and punishment.
Truly, the whole world was enslaved by belief in troubled gods.
Phasa, like me, had little use for religion.
We spoke of the theater and her favorite hypocrites, whose antics sent her sprawling across her bed in fits of laughter as she mimicked them. And of her beautiful jewelry, any single piece of which was worth more than all of Nazareth might gather in a year. And of her servants, whom she loved, I thought. And of Sepphoris, which we both often gazed upon from the high tower.
From our protected perch, the political troubles spoken of by Judah and Miriam were difficult to fathom. There were many slaves at work about the grounds, and poor begging on the distant streets, but the world was full of slaves and poor, was it not? And by Phasa’s own accounting, Herod was a decent king, unlike his father, who had butchered thousands of his own people to protect his throne.
It was also clear to me that Phasa hated her husband no more than he hated her—she only felt enslaved by him and, indeed, by Aretas, who’d sent her to Galilee for his own gain. In this way, too, Phasa and I were like sisters.
We ate more food than I had known to exist and took more baths than we possibly needed and applied more fragrances than I thought was healthy for the flesh.
During all this, Judah and Saba were captive in dark dungeons beneath the ground. A Bedu might prefer death. I could not find peace.
And so, on the fifteenth day, I conspired to take whatever risk necessary to see that they were alive and safe.
“Phasa… may we speak alone?” I said, stepping into her chamber that late afternoon.
She waved her hand at Esther. “Give us a moment, Esther.”
“Yes, mistress.” The young servant who was like a shadow to Phasa dipped her head and left the room, easing the door shut.
“What is it, dear?”
“Only a question.”
I had considered my approach all through the day.
“Why does a queen have slaves?” I asked.
“To serve her, of course.” She paused, studying me curiously. “You would like your own in my chambers? Surely you know that my slaves are yours.”
“Is a queen not obligated to her slaves, so that they might serve her?”
“But of course.”
“She must see to it that they are well cared for.”
“Even more,” she said, “to be sure they want for nothing. I have always said, Maviah, treat a slave like a queen and she will love you like one. Did I tell you about Esther’s mother?”