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

  “The people of Modein will be generous,” Avigail said, “as they were generous with me when my man died. The Law commands them to leave grain and fruit for the needy.”

  “But I don’t want to be poor!” Mother looked from one woman to the other, searching for answers they did not have. “All I have are a few wild horses, and no one will want to buy them after this. I have daughters to feed, unless—” Her voice broke as she looked at the small stool where Ketura usually sat at meals. “Ketura!” Her anguished voice spilled out the window as she turned toward it, frantically looking for my sister.

  “Tend to your husband!” Avigail’s voice cut through the mourners’ cries. “Half the village is out searching for your daughter. They will find her soon.”

  Reluctantly, Mother left the window and stepped to the table, then looked at the dead man and broke into fresh tears. “What a fool I married! He should never have taken Ketura with him on that animal.”

  This earned her a sharp look from Avigail, but I had no time to wonder about it, because a strong voice suddenly called from the street: “Sipporah!”

  Mother lifted her head, and for an instant the worry lines between her brows melted away. “Did they find my beautiful girl?”

  She flew to the window again, and from the sound of her anguished cry I knew they had not found my sister alive. Mother took several steps backward and crumpled to the floor, tearing at her tunic as the air trembled with the agony of her grief.

  A man from the village came through the doorway with my sister in his arms. Without speaking, he laid Ketura’s body next to my father’s, and the women in the room lifted their voices in another chorus of unspeakable loss.

  The cause of death—later they would say it was snakebite—did not matter. All I could hear was Mother wailing that with her husband and beautiful daughter gone, she had nothing, so she might as well join them in the grave.

  Two days after we buried my father and sister, a man riding a fine horse entered the village. I saw him come through the gate, and some deep-seated intuition told me he had come to see my mother.

  “Who is that?” one of the other girls whispered, pointing to the stranger at the center of a dust cloud.

  “Someone important,” another girl answered. “He wears elegant clothing.”

  I left my jar at the well and hurried home. Mother had not done her chores since the funerals, so I had been fetching water and doing my best to grind the grain. But my arms were not strong, and my efforts were far from satisfactory.

  I passed several houses, each sitting behind a courtyard. In each courtyard a woman stood and peered toward the well, where the stranger had dismounted to water his horse.

  “Well-bred animal,” one woman remarked.

  “Expensive tunic,” another said.

  “He looks familiar,” called the woman across the street. “I’ve seen him before.”

  “He is one of the high priest’s sons.” Avigail’s mouth curled in a smile. “Distant cousin to Sipporah. Mark my words, he has come from Jerusalem to see her.”

  “He can’t go in the house,” the first woman said, her voice flat. “He won’t. Sipporah will be unclean until the Sabbath.”

  “As will we all,” Avigail said. “But we can still speak to him.”

  “Sipporah!” The woman who lived next to our house turned toward our door. “Someone has come to see you.”

  I reached our home just as Mother stepped into the courtyard. Her face was pale, her head uncovered, and her eyes still puffy. She looked around, then asked the air, “Who would come to this house of sorrow?”

  Without speaking, all the women turned toward the well, where the well-dressed man had left his horse. He was moving down the dusty street, saying nothing, and studying each woman he approached. Finally he stopped at our courtyard gate.

  He did not ask permission to enter but dipped his head in a respectful nod. “Sipporah, wife of Ittamar?”

  Mother squinted at him. “Could it be John Hyrcanus?”

  “Cousin.” He greeted her, his deep voice resonating with concern. “How sorry I was to hear about Ittamar and your child. I know your heart is heavy, but I have come to extend what comfort I can. I want to assure you that we will never ignore your needs. My family will be your family, and you do not need to fear the future.”

  Tears glinted in Mother’s eyes. “I have suffered a great loss. Ittamar is gone, and Ketura—she was the most beautiful girl in Modein. She would have been a lovely bride for some fortunate young man. She would have been fit for a prince.”

  The visitor inclined his head. “Yes, the last time I spoke with Ittamar, he remarked on your eldest daughter’s beauty. But you have another daughter, yes?”

  Mother blinked, then nodded. “Salome Alexandra.”

  “Ittamar said your youngest daughter was exceptional, as well. He said she was clever.”

  Mother blinked again. “Clever?”

  “He said she taught herself to read. That she was advanced beyond her years and studied Torah with him, memorizing as easily as a scholar.”

  Mother gave him an uncertain look. “He said that?”

  “He did. So when I heard about your tragedy, I knew I had to come and offer our help. We will be happy to take care of you and your daughter.”

  “You are too kind.” Mother murmured the words absently, and I could tell she was still thinking about what Father had told this man.

  “Nonsense. I’m sure Ittamar would do the same thing if the situation were reversed.”

  I tilted my head and considered the stranger’s words. While my father had been a good man, I could not imagine him offering to take care of this powerful man’s family. They would probably laugh at his offer, a tribe of lions scorning help from a mouse.

  “I will send a wagon for you after the Sabbath,” John Hyrcanus went on. “Henceforth, you and Salome will be under my guardianship. We have a place for you, so you need not worry about anything.”

  That promise, bestowed so easily, seemed to fill the shadows in the courtyard and brighten Mother’s face. Looking up, somehow she found the courage to offer him a weak smile. “May HaShem bless and keep you, cousin, until we see your wagon coming through our gate.”

  Though grief lay heavy on my mother’s heart, throughout the next week she did her best to prepare for our move to Jerusalem. She gave away my father’s clothing and sold our goats to the neighbors. She sold Father’s wild horses to a trader. She packed up our few tunics and sandals, putting all our possessions into wooden trunks and woven baskets.

  When we had finished packing, we had little to occupy our time as we waited for John Hyrcanus to send a wagon. Mother sat in the nearly empty house and wept while I wandered through the village, pausing at the gates of the neighbors’ courtyards and silently saying good-bye to the sights and sounds I had known since I was old enough to walk. The village of Modein, small though it was, encompassed my entire world, and I could not imagine anything outside it.

  As I wandered through the dusty streets, the other mothers called out condolences and assured me they were going to miss me. “Take care of your mother in Jerusalem,” I heard time and again. “Don’t let her forget us.”

  While we waited, I sat by the fire pit and thought about all the things my father had taught me. From the Tanakh he read portions of the Torah, the writings and the prophets, and frequently the Scriptures mentioned the word Savior. “My God is my rock, in Him I take refuge,” David wrote, “my shield, my horn of salvation, my stronghold and my refuge, my Savior—You save me from violence.”

  I had never endured the hard things David suffered, but as my childish lips repeated the Scripture I had memorized, I realized that John Hyrcanus was a sort of savior to Mother and me. With Father gone, we faced a life of poverty and want until John Hyrcanus, son of Simon the high priest, left his home in Jerusalem and came to little Modein with his promise to save us.

  But that promise vanished when two sweaty riders stopped at the
well and broadcast a terrible report: Simon Maccabaeus, son of Mattathias the righteous priest, had been most foully murdered, along with his two eldest sons, Mattathias and Judah. Simon had been the last of the five brothers known as the Maccabees, and the first of the Hasmon family to be proclaimed Israel’s “leader and high priest forever, until there should arise a faithful prophet.”

  As a child, I did not understand the full meaning of those words, but I had heard the name Simon enough to know he was important to everyone in Judea.

  Mother went silent at the somber news, and the village of Modein sank into a grief that eclipsed the mourning of my father and sister. The sons of Mattathias, I heard people say, were our people. Simon had grown up in Jerusalem, but his father and his brothers had launched their war against the Seleucid invaders in Modein. The neighbors around me had watched and prayed with Judas Maccabaeus, who led the army of Israel, and they had traded and worked alongside Johanan, Eleazar, and Jonathan. Along with Mattathias, they had sacrificed their husbands, fathers, and sons to win their freedom from pagan tyranny.

  Simon, Mother reminded Avigail, had been our high priest for only seven years. “He should have died in his bed,” she said, weeping. “He should have led us until his death as an old man.”

  “Even more horrible,” Avigail replied, “is the betrayal! They say Ptolemy, his own son-in-law, planned the murder.”

  Confused, I tried to make sense of the wailing I heard from every house. I tugged on Mother’s tunic and waited until she looked down at me. “Ima, was Simon our king?”

  She shook her head. “Simon was our leader and high priest.”

  “So who will be high priest now?”

  She looked at Avigail, her brows lifting. “What do you think? With the two older sons in their graves, the high priest must be John Hyrcanus.”

  Avigail frowned. “I am surprised they did not try to kill him, as well.”

  “Maybe they did. Maybe . . . he was somewhere else when they sought to kill him. Maybe he was here . . . with us.” An odd look settled on Mother’s features—surprise, puzzlement, and a touch of fear. “I am being foolish. Surely we are too small to matter in such dealings.”

  Avigail smiled. “HaShem uses all things to work His will—even small things.” She peered at me. “Never forget that, Salome Alexandra. Even a girl as small as you is not too small to matter.”

  The corner of Mother’s mouth twisted at that suggestion, but the mention of Hyrcanus had turned her thoughts to other matters. Her face clouded. “My cousin may not send for us now. He will mourn his father and brothers, and he will move his family into the high priest’s house. His life is about to change completely . . . I would not be surprised if he forgot about us.”

  I tugged on Mother’s tunic as hope filled my heart. “If he forgets, can we stay here? Can we get our goats back?”

  Mother gave me a swift tap on the shoulder and told me to run along.

  As I wandered through the village, I realized that Mother was not the only person talking about changes in Judea. The news that John Hyrcanus would become our high priest seemed to stun the village almost as much as the news about Simon being killed. “Hyrcanus has not been trained,” the men protested as they led their sheep and goats out to pasture. “He was never meant for the priesthood.”

  “Is he not a Levite?” others countered. “And was Simon not his father? The hand of HaShem will be on his life, and surely even this is the Lord’s doing.”

  When I returned home, I found Mother sitting by the window and chewing on a fingernail. She would not tell me why she appeared anxious, but when Avigail came to visit, Mother did not mince words. “I thought we would be all right,” she said, her hand at her throat. “John Hyrcanus promised to take us in, but how can he do that now? The high priest and the leader of Israel will have no time for poor relatives. He will have far more important things on his mind.”

  “A priest looks after HaShem’s people,” Avigail said, her voice low and soothing. “If John Hyrcanus made you a promise, he will keep it. You must be patient and give him time.”

  “And when we run out of grain, what then?” Mother’s eyes snapped. “Am I to beg by the well? Perhaps I should resort to thievery and steal one of my kinsmen’s lambs.”

  “Patience, Sipporah,” Avigail counseled. “HaShem hears the cries of the widow and the fatherless. He will take care of you as He took care of Hagar in the desert. As He took care of me.”

  He would be our savior.

  I looked at Mother, hoping to see relief in her face, but all I saw was a cloud of fearful desperation.

  Chapter Three

  Kissa

  I saw the cook coming, noticed the large wooden bowl in her hands, and winced. She was watching the contents of the steaming bowl, not her feet. Because I had no time to move in the narrow space where I was not supposed to be, I flattened my body against a stack of crates, willing myself to be as small as possible . . .

  My effort failed. The cook’s left foot struck my heel and down she went, spilling hot soup all over herself, the floor, and me.

  I yelped in pain and squirmed away, but not before the cook spotted me. Her face went red as she released a scream of equal parts agony and anger. As other servants appeared in the doorway, the cook shook herself like a wet dog and reached for me.

  “I’ll kill you,” she said, her hand closing around the back of my neck. “Worthless child! Why didn’t you speak when you saw me coming?”

  “Because,” I shouted, “I was afraid the noise would startle you and you’d drop the soup on me!”

  She did not care for my answer, of course, and I knew I would never be able to convince her that I had tried to get out of her way.

  As my skin blistered, she pushed me forward. I stumbled beneath her iron grip and fell into the courtyard, where nearly a dozen slaves had gathered to investigate the commotion. They watched, wide-eyed, as the cook stood above me, wet, furious, and sputtering in Aramaic. I glanced over my shoulder as someone tossed her a strip of linen. She wiped the hot soup from her skin, wincing as she did so.

  “I ought to string her up and let the buzzards pick her bones clean,” she said, her cheeks blood red. “Never have I seen such a stupid girl. Always in the way, and she eats far too much. Too weak to carry a basket of fruit and too thin for beauty. I ask you, why should the master keep her around?”

  “If he doesn’t want me around, why doesn’t he send me back?” I yelled.

  “Stupid girl,” the cook said, glaring back at me. “Do you think our new master even knows who you are?”

  Several slaves shook their heads, as if they could see no reason for my existence. But one young woman lifted her chin and said, “She may have a temper, and she may not please you, but she is the high priest’s property and he would not appreciate losing her. I do not think you should harm this child, or you may pay dearly for it tomorrow.”

  The cook, whose hefty arms had begun to blister, glared at the young woman, then scowled at me. “The new master hasn’t arrived yet. So it’s not likely he would miss a skinny Egyptian girl.”

  “I would miss her. And I might tell the master about the cook who thought nothing of killing one of his slaves.”

  I looked up, eager to see the face of the angel who had defended me, but I could barely see her through the crowd. Her words, however, had their intended effect on the angry cook.

  “So I won’t kill her,” the cook said. “But I will beat her because I’m her overseer. I’ll teach her not to lie on the floor if it takes my last breath. Switch!”

  She held out her hand, and almost immediately one of the young boys placed a thin reed on her palm. She bent it as if testing its strength, then looked at me.

  “Remove the tunic,” she commanded. “By the crud between Seth’s toes, you will remember this lesson until your dying day.”

  Though I protested, two stableboys lifted me from the ground and yanked at the shoulders of my tunic. I clung to the front of the g
arment, holding it against my chest. The tallest of the boys turned me so that I stood with my exposed back toward the cook.

  “One question,” the young woman said. “If she is not to lie on the floor, where is she supposed to sleep?”

  The question resonated among the observers, and I nearly turned to see the cook’s reaction. We slaves did not have the luxury of beds and slept wherever we could find a bit of empty floor. Most of the slaves had claimed favorite spots on the property, but I was a recent arrival and had not yet found a place where I would be out of the master’s sight and out of the cook’s way.

  In this land so far from my home, I had found nothing but trouble and a never-ending sense of restlessness.

  “She can sleep anywhere,” the cook replied, her voice still ragged with fury, “so long as it is not in my kitchen.”

  Then I heard the switch rend the air and felt its sharp cut upon my back. “One,” the cook said, and the switch sang again. “Two.”

  On that day I learned two things: the importance of staying out of the cook’s way, and how to count to ten.

  “You, girl. Come here.”

  I rose from the cold ashes of an abandoned cook fire, the sleeping spot I’d claimed as my own. I thought no one had noticed me, but the chief house slave had sharp eyes.

  I walked toward her, head down, moving slow. Perhaps she had some new work for me to do, something to take me away from the hot kitchen. Such work would be welcome, for I had not been outside in over a week.

  The woman’s bony hands caught my shoulders and pulled me forward, then pinched the flesh of my upper arm. “A little dirty and thin, but nothing a good scrubbing won’t remedy,” she said, her eyes narrowing as she glanced at another slave by her side. “She’s the right age, and that’s what matters. Didn’t the master say he wanted a girl of nine or ten years?”

  “Eleven.” I lifted my chin. “I have lived eleven years. Mama said I was eleven when she told me good-bye, and a full year has not passed since I left Egypt—”