Jerusalem's Queen--A Novel of Salome Alexandra Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Half Title

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Preface

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  Discussion Questions

  References

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  List of Pages

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  Jerusalem’s

  Queen

  © 2018 by Angela Hunt Communications, Inc.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-1607-3

  Scripture quotations are from the Tree of Life Version. © 2015 by the Messianic Jewish Family Bible Society. Used by permission of the Messianic Jewish Family Bible Society. “TLV” and “Tree of Life Version” and “Tree of Life Holy Scriptures” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by the Messianic Jewish Family Bible Society.

  This is a work of historical reconstruction; the appearances of certain historical figures are therefore inevitable. All other characters, however, are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover design by LOOK Design Studio

  Cover photography by Aimee Christenson

  Author is represented by Browne & Miller Literary Associates.

  Contents

  Cover

  Half Title

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Preface

  Epigraph

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  Discussion Questions

  References

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  In the Christian Bible, one turns the page after Malachi and finds Matthew as if only a few days fell between the activities of the prophet and the arrival of Jesus Christ. In reality, however, four hundred “silent years” lie between the Old Testament and New, a time when God did not speak to Israel through His prophets. Yet despite the prophets’ silence, God continued to work in His people, other nations, and the supernatural realm.

  He led Israel through a time of testing that developed a sense of hope and a yearning for the promised Messiah.

  He brought the four nations prophesied in Daniel’s vision to international prominence: the Babylonians, the Persians, the Greeks, and the Romans. These powerful kingdoms spread their cultures throughout civilization and united the world by means of paved highways and international sailing routes.

  God also prepared to fulfill His promise to the serpent in Eden: “I will put animosity between you and the woman, and between your descendant and her descendant; he will bruise your head, and you will bruise his heel” (Gen. 3:15).

  For God never sleeps, and though He may not communicate as we expect Him to, He can always speak to a receptive heart.

  Our sages commanded that one should not teach one’s daughter Torah because the minds of most women are incapable of concentrating on learning, and thus, because of their intellectual poverty, they turn the words of Torah into words of nonsense.

  Moses Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, “Laws of Torah Study,” 1:13

  Chapter One

  They are all here, gathered like vultures around my bed, watching with long faces and occasionally bending near to listen for my breathing. Hyrcanus studies me with wet eyes; Aristobulus is not present, undoubtedly intent on working mischief outside Jerusalem. His wife, whom I have never liked, smiles at my bedside, ready to fly to her husband once I am gone.

  HaShem, can I not stay a little longer? My sons are not at peace with each other, and I worry their animosity will destroy the peace of Judea.

  I close my eyes and the room goes silent. When I open them again, the daughter-in-law at my side frowns.

  I shift my attention to the others. Such beloved faces! Here is Simeon ben Shetah, who takes my hand and pronounces a blessing on my head. There is Honi the Circle-Drawer, who pushes his way past Simeon to see me. I try to smile at him, but my lips do not respond as I would like.

  The distant sound of mournful music seeps into the room. The figures around me soften in a hazy glow, and my friends and family are replaced by loved ones from long ago. My father! My sister, now a woman as beautiful as I expected. My mother, who smiles at me with pleased surprise. And Uncle, standing erect, his hands folded, wearing a look of satisfaction. I see Alena and Avigail and Ezra Diagos—

  “Mistress?”

  I blink at the sound of Kissa’s voice. My eyelids flutter, and with an effort I focus on the oval face hovering near mine.

  “Honi Ha-Meaggel would like to pray with you.”

  I nod, or try to, and as the circle-drawer reads, the beloved words lift me from my surroundings and distract me from my visitors.

  “I will lift up my eyes to the mountains—

  from where does my help come?

  My help comes from Adonai,

  Maker of heaven and earth.

  He will not let your foot slip.

  Your Keeper will not slumber.

  Behold, the Keeper of Israel

  neither slumbers nor sleeps . . .”

  I look down on the palace courtyard that has filled with my people, many of whom are weeping. The air vibrates with the ululation of mourners. Men and women are beating their breasts, asking HaShem to bless my journey . . . as I have blessed Israel.

  Their words are a balm to my soul. Thanks be to HaShem, He listened to the prayer of a fatherless girl and granted her most earnest desire: to matter in a world where women were often chattel, overlooked and forgotten.

  And then He made her queen.

  Chapter Two

  Shelamzion

  I covered my eyes, unable to look at the dead man on the table. Thus occupied, my hands could not protect my ears, which had filled with the sound of Mother’s frantic wailing and the mourners’ rising ululation.

  “M
y husband,” Mother cried, her voice trembling. “And my beautiful girl! How can I lose them both in one day?”

  “Hush now.” Avigail pulled my mother into her arms. “Ketura Desmona may yet live. We will know nothing until they find her.”

  Mother shook her head. “She is gone. HaShem has taken her from me.”

  The mourners wailed on cue, and Mother burst into fresh sobs.

  Overcome by the sights and sounds of grief, I crouched lower in the corner, willing myself to disappear. No one looked in my direction because I was the second daughter, the plain one. I was only Shelamzion.

  “So sudden,” Avigail said, releasing my mother. The old woman, our closest neighbor, picked up a piece of wet linen, wiped it over my dead father’s chest, and shook her head. “Ittamar was a fine man. HaShem blessed you with a fine husband, a prosperous man, and now He has taken him away.”

  “Blessed be the name of the Lord,” another neighbor murmured, determination in the straight line of her mouth as she scrubbed between the dead man’s toes. “He gives and He takes away.”

  “But to take him—like this!” Mother sputtered, looking from one neighbor to another. “He was fine this morning. He broke his fast and went riding with Ketura, and before I could even visit the well, my husband returned to me, dead! And my daughter—my pride and joy—what has become of her?”

  A newcomer caught Mother’s arm. “A swift death is a mercy, and my son said your husband died instantly. Apparently the horse reared, and Ittamar fell backward. Your daughter must have been thrown from the saddle.”

  “So where is she?” Mother shrieked. She stepped to the window, threw open the wooden shutters, and looked into the courtyard as if expecting my nine-year-old sister to materialize outside the door. “Where could she be?”

  “Poor, proud Ittamar.” Avigail’s hands drifted to the corpse’s forehead. “Why did you have to insist on a horse? Would not a mule have served you as well?” The other women did not reply but kept washing the body.

  Though I was but a child of six years, I knew the old woman had raised a valid point. Most of the villagers in Modein rode mules, if they rode at all, yet Father had insisted on riding a horse. And not just any horse—his mount had to be a stallion, the finest money could buy, and it had to be a proud beast, and lively, with a wild streak to intimidate less-skilled riders.

  That insistence, born of pride, had probably cost Father his life. The skittish stallion often fidgeted when a rider climbed onto his back and frequently kicked at any passerby who happened to startle him. Mother often spoke of how untrustworthy the animal was, yet Father only laughed at her fears.

  He was not laughing now. And Ketura? Where was my sister?

  Before sunset, Father would take his place in the family tomb, and Mother and I would face life without him. I would miss his twinkling dark eyes, his booming laugh, and the work-worn hands that had always patted my head with gentle affection.

  A sob rose in my throat, and I barely forced it down. Mother was already mad with grief; I did not want to distract her and cause her further pain.

  Now she walked around the room, her hands in constant motion—pressing against her forehead, clinging to the table for support, tugging at the neckline of her tunic. “What will we do?” she asked, glancing around the room. “Ittamar’s parents are dead, and he has no brothers. His sisters have married into other families . . .”