that would mean war, sir, and war with us Romans. So I feel that Aretas
would hardly be so foolhardy as to attempt to send an army against
Herod.”
“I hardly think so, either, Centurion. But a father will sometimes do
foolish things when his daughter’s honor is at stake. If Aretas should
challenge Herod, that will mean war, and war is expensive, Longinus. The
cost in terms of both men and money is exorbitant ... and useless. War
would also mean loss of work and production and loss of revenue in
addition to the expenditure of revenue already collected.” His frown
deepened. “By the great gods, I should never have permitted Herod to
have Herodias. He has not only offended his own people; he has now set
King Aretas against him ... and us!”
Angrily the Prefect drummed his fingers on the desk again. Then quickly
his anger seemed to disappear. He arose, and the centurion stood with
him. “But we need not anticipate events,” Sejanus said. “When you go
back to Palestine, however, I want you to make a careful investigation
of the situation. It might be well for you to contrive some reason for
visiting our fortress at Machaerus; it’s over beyond the Dead Sea on the
borders of Arabia; perhaps by going there you may learn whether Aretas
is actually planning to attack Herod.”
“I’m familiar with the place, sir. I was there several years ago.”
“Yes. By the way, in your report of Herod’s arrest of that desert
preacher, you indicated that he may have displeased a large number of
the Jews.”
“I’m confident he did, sir. Many of them hold that John in the highest
regard. I think Herod made a mistake, sir, and I felt it my duty to
inform you so.”
“But wasn’t Herod justified in believing him to be an insurrectionist?”
“At first, sir, I confess I thought so. But Cornelius, who understands
the Jews, insisted that he was just a harmless religious fanatic, and
nothing more. Frankly I soon came to the same conclusion. The fellow is
deluded, of course, but so are most of the Jews in respect to their
foolish one-god religion; other than that, I’m convinced that he’s
entirely harmless. And he has many followers who were deeply offended
when Herod, at the insistence of Herodias, had him arrested.”
“By the gods, that headstrong woman! She will be Herod’s ruination!” He
was thoughtfully silent. “Perhaps, Centurion, Rome might profit if I had
the man liberated. At any rate, look into the matter, and let me hear as
quickly as you can”—his scowl deepened—“if it will wait that long ...
and if Aretas isn’t precipitate in sending an army against Herod.”
“But, sir....”
“I haven’t told you, Longinus,” the Prefect interrupted. “You aren’t
returning at once to Palestine. Now that you’re here, I have another
mission, quite urgent, that I’m sending you on into Gaul. When you have
accomplished this—and it should require only a few months—you will go
out to the east again.”
Sejanus pushed out his lips into a round pucker, and once more his eyes
began to catch fire and his narrow face lighted sensually. Then he
twisted his lips again into the thin semblance of a smile. “I hope,
Centurion, that you can wait that long ... before getting back to
Claudia!” Then quickly the smile was gone. “Remember, Longinus, she must
be kept away from Rome, and it will continue to be your task to keep her
happily occupied.” The lips twisted again. “That task, I should think,
will not be an unpleasant one.”
Machaerus
[Illustration: decorative glyph]
29
Someone knocked on the door to Claudia’s apartment, and Tullia was sent
to answer it. She ran quickly back into the tepidarium.
“Tertius says there’s a soldier to see you, Mistress, a centurion. He’s
waiting in the atrium.”
“Longinus! Oh, by the Bountiful Mother!” But quickly Claudia’s elation
subsided. “He must still be in Gaul, though, according to the
information Sergius Paulus had from Rome. Still”—her face lighted—“he
might have returned early, perhaps, and caught a fast vessel to
Caesarea. Bona Dea, Tullia, help me finish dressing! The perfume, that
vial”—she pointed—“the Tyrian. And do hurry, Tullia!”
A few minutes later she scurried breathlessly into the atrium. But the
soldier was not Longinus. The Centurion Cornelius arose and advanced to
meet her. He saw her disappointment and smiled understanding. “I’m
sorry, Claudia, but Longinus hasn’t returned to Palestine, nor have we
heard at Tiberias when he expects to arrive. I’ve come to bring you a
message from the Tetrarch Herod Antipas and the Tetrarchess.”
“I’ll confess I was hoping Longinus had surprised me, Cornelius,” she
said, “although I’d heard that he was still in Gaul. Did you know about
his assignment out there?”
Cornelius nodded. “Yes. But we understood it was not to be a lengthy
mission.”
Claudia motioned to a seat; she sat down and Cornelius sat facing her.
She summoned Tertius to bring wine and wafers. “And now, Centurion,” she
said, “what is the message you fetch me from Tiberias?”
“They are inviting you and the Procurator to go with them down to
Machaerus to spend a holiday season there. And if the Procurator’s
duties will not permit his leaving his post, the Tetrarchess hopes that
you will join them anyway, together with your servants and any guests
you may wish to bring.”
“To Machaerus? That’s the fortress castle on the other side of the Dead
Sea, isn’t it, on the southern border of Peraea?”
“Yes, it’s on a high plateau overlooking the Dead Sea, some way south of
Mount Nebo.”
“A wild and desolate country, isn’t it? I’ve never been there.”
“I understand so; I’ve never been there myself. A good place, they say
in Tiberias, for the sort of holiday the Tetrarch particularly enjoys
... wild, uninhibited, like himself.”
Claudia laughed appreciatively. “It promises to be interesting at any
rate. But”—her face clouded perceptibly—“I know that Pilate won’t go. In
the first place, he loathes Antipas—and I do, too, as a matter of
fact—and in the second place, he wouldn’t venture that far from
provincial headquarters. But he might let me go. And it would be a
change from this dreary existence.” She brightened. “When are they
planning to make this holiday excursion?”
“As a matter of fact, they’ve probably already started. They sent me on
ahead in the hope that you might agree to join them; if you should, I’m
to escort you and your party to the Jordan, where they plan to meet us.
They were to start this morning from Tiberias. If we could leave by
tomorrow morning, we would be able to reach the Jordan at about the same
time they do. From there we would continue down the Jordan Valley to the
Dead Sea and around its eastern shore at the foot of Mount Nebo to
Machaerus.”
“How long do they plan to be there?”
“A week or longer, probably longer”—Cornelius smiled glumly—“if the
Tetrarch has to recover from one of his usual drunken orgies. But if you
should wish to leave earlier, I’d be glad to escort you back to
Caesarea. And we’ll see that you don’t ran afoul of Bar Abbas or any of
those other zealot cutthroats.”
“I really would like to go, and I see no reason why I shouldn’t, even if
Pilate won’t. If I only knew that Longinus would be there.” ... She
broke off, laughing. “Cornelius, why do you suppose old Sejanus recalled
him to Rome? Do you think it was because of”—she shrugged—“well, us? And
do you suppose he’ll continue to provide assignments that will keep him
away from Palestine?”
Cornelius shook his head. “I hardly think so, Claudia. The Prefect, in
my opinion, summoned him to Rome to inquire about the situation out
here. I think he wanted to learn about the temper of the people, how the
Jews were taking to Antipas and his new wife, and to the new Procurator;
that was one reason, I’m sure. But he was mainly interested in learning
whether the revenue was flowing into his treasury without being diverted
in part into the coffers of....” He paused.
“Pilate and Antipas?”
“That’s my opinion, Claudia. I don’t believe the Prefect is really
concerned with anything beyond keeping the province peacefully paying
its taxes. So I’m confident Longinus will be sent back to Palestine,
he’s the man Sejanus needs for the job he gave him ... and still needs;
he’ll be back, though I’d hesitate to predict when.” He shrugged his
shoulders. “For a soldier, I’ve been speaking very freely, and to the
wife of the Procurator, at that.”
“And for the wife of the Procurator, so have I. But I’m not naïve enough
to think, Cornelius, that you don’t know just how little I am Pilate’s
wife. You must feel free to talk with me in complete frankness, just as
I feel free to talk that way with you. And tomorrow, by the gods, Pilate
willing or Pilate grumbling—and he won’t grumble at me, by the Great
Mother—I’ll start with you for Machaerus.”
30
The two sat in a protected spot of warming sunshine on the terrace at
Machaerus. A week ago as the caravan bringing the Tetrarch’s party had
moved down the low trough of the Jordan, the faintly greening willows
and oleanders bordering the twisting stream had hinted of spring. But
here on this desolate, upflung headland, barren and granite-capped, the
March winds were crisply chill.
“Are you cold?” Herodias asked. “Would you like to go inside?”
“No, it’s wonderful out here, as long as we’re sheltered from the wind.
It’s so bracing, so invigorating after all our dissipating....”
“But, my dear, I haven’t been aware of your dissipating at Machaerus.
With Longinus not here....”
“Pluto roast old Sejanus! But too much wine, nevertheless, and entirely
too much rich food.” Claudia looked out from beneath long eyelashes.
“After all, isn’t more indulging done in banquet halls than in
bedrooms?”
“As far as I’m concerned, yes, certainly.”
“But the Tetrarch is here with you, Herodias, and he appears to be in a
gay holiday mood.”
“Here with me? Hah!” She tossed her head disdainfully. “With his women,
you mean, those dark, fat, greasy, perfume-reeking Arabian women old
Aretas gave him. And his little girls.”
“Little girls?”
“Yes. Hadn’t you noticed? They seem at the moment to be an important
part of the Machaerus staff. As Antipas gets more senile—and I’m sure
he’s getting that way—he tries more and more to ape the Emperor. At
least, that’s what I believe he thinks he’s doing. It’s disgusting, of
course, but I welcome being relieved of his crude attentions.”
“But in Rome, Herodias, weren’t you eager to marry Antipas?”
“Yes, but you know why. I wanted to marry the Tetrarch of Galilee and
Peraea so that I could make him a king and myself a queen. I sought the
office, my dear, not the man.” She pulled her lips into a determined
grim line. “And I still expect to see him on a king’s throne, with me
seated beside him. But as a man Antipas has as much attraction for me as
... as I suppose Pilate has for you.”
Claudia laughed understanding, but made no observation. Instead, she
pointed westward. “Look how high we are here. The Dead Sea seems almost
below us, and it must be several miles away.”
“The surface of the Dead Sea is a quarter of a mile below the surface of
the Great Sea. And we’re a half mile above the Great Sea; that would
make us, where we sit now, about four thousand feet above the Dead Sea,
wouldn’t it? Jerusalem, of course, is almost this high.” Herodias
twisted around slightly to point northwestward. “See, across there,
almost straight west of the top of the Dead Sea, that’s Jerusalem. It’s
too far away, of course, for us to distinguish any of the buildings, but
the city’s on that rise, just there. Sometimes of a late afternoon, when
the angle is just right, they say, one can see the sunlight flashing
from the golden roof of the Temple.”
Claudia looked off to her left and settled back in her chair. “Herodias,
why did they ever build this palace in such a desolate, rockbound region
so far from everything?”
“I asked Antipas the same question. He said it was built more as a fort
than a palace. This is near the southern boundary of the tetrarchy. Down
there”—she pointed southward above a narrow valley fast greening with
luxuriant vegetation—“beyond that stream with its banks lined with
willows is the kingdom of Aretas. The Herods originally came from that
region at the southern end of the Dead Sea, which was called Idumaea. So
this fortress up here was built as a defense post.”
“Then Aretas isn’t far away, is he? By the way, what became of his
daughter, the woman you displaced?”
“I don’t know, and what’s more, I don’t care!” She realized that she had
spoken petulantly. “I didn’t mean to be short, Claudia. I have no reason
to hate her, after all. And I have no idea that she or her father will
attempt reprisal against Antipas. Any attack upon him would be an attack
upon Rome, and surely they wouldn’t risk that.”
“I think you need have no apprehensions. But, of course, I know
absolutely nothing about this King Aretas or his daughter. Generally,
though, I understand, these eastern peoples are impulsive and
vindictive.”
“But they’re also known to be very shrewd. Surely he would know he
couldn’t defeat Rome.”
“If he calmly considered the situation, yes.” She shrugged. “I hope so.
If Rome should be involved in war with the Arabian king, Sejanus and the
Emperor would both be infuriated, and Sejanus, I’m sure, would place the
blame for it upon Antipas ... and you.” She had been looking downward
beyond the descending outcroppings of granite and limestone and sand to
the great sluggish salt sea far below them. But now she confronted
Herodias, her countenance plainly concerned. “Herodias, if Aretas should
seek vengeance against the Tetrarch and you, what would the Israelites
do? Would they fight him? Have they become reconciled to your being
Tetrarchess? Do many of them still hold with that wild fellow we
encountered that day on the river bank?” She paused, and suddenly her
eyes were roundly questioning. “Wasn’t it to Machaerus that Antipas sent
him? By the gods, is he here now?”
“Yes, and still a troublemaker. They say his followers have been coming
here all the time since he’s been imprisoned. Haven’t you noticed all
the Jews coming and going while we’ve been here? Look.” She indicated a
point far down the slope where the trail to Machaerus led from the road
paralleling the lakeside. “That group down there, I’d wager they’re
coming here to listen to the fellow’s haranguing. And they’ll try to see
Antipas and petition him to free the madman.” For a moment she watched
the men coming slowly up the slope. “If Antipas had done as I said and
had the man beheaded, he could have prevented all this; while that
fellow’s alive there’ll be more and more agitation against us.” She
hunched up a shoulder. “But what can one do with a person,” she said
indifferently, “who is not only fearful and woefully superstitious but
is horribly obstinate as well?” She stood up. “Excuse me, Claudia; you
stay out here and sun yourself as long as you like. But I have some
things to do before we sit down to Antipas’ birthday banquet, one of
which, no doubt”—her brittle laugh echoed across the terrace—“will be to
get him sobered sufficiently to attend it himself.”
31
The Tetrarch, mouth open, his thick lips grease-smeared and
wine-purpled, snored sonorously; his round, closely cropped head,
cradled in his hand, swayed in precarious balance on the column of his
forearm which was pressed into the heavy cushion.
Herodias, reclining at his left, had changed position to rest her head
on her right arm and thereby avoid somewhat breathing the heavily
alcoholic exhalations of her spouse; she lay facing her daughter.
Claudia, Herod’s guest of honor, was at his right, and next to her, as
the ranking Roman soldier at Machaerus, Herod had placed the Centurion
Cornelius. Other guests, in various stages of intoxication, sat or
reclined on their elbows or had fallen inert on their couches to the
right and left of the Tetrarch.
The banquet had begun in the daylight of late afternoon, and by the time
the sun had dropped behind the western headlands the Tetrarch and his
guests had begun to be surfeited with the richly tempting food, the
wine, and the wildly sensual dancing of Herod’s darkly handsome Arabian
women, who, nude but for gossamer thin, gaily colored loincloths,
writhed and twisted in the open square before the tables to the
oriental, whining insistence of the strings and the maddeningly
rhythmical beat of the drums.
But now the dancers, their copper-hued perspiring bodies shining as
though they had been rubbed with olive oil, had retired to a chamber
adjoining the banquet room. From there they could come prancing out
barefoot, with lewd twistings and contortings, at the first summons of
the musicians. Until Antipas should arouse from his stupor, though, and
call for them, they would be free to relax.
Cornelius, who had been eying the Tetrarch, nodded in his direction. “If
we could get his head down flat,” he said to Claudia, “he’d be asleep
until morning, and we could leave. Wouldn’t you like to get away?”
“Yes. I’m gorged. And I’d like to have a breath of fresh air on the
terrace. Perhaps Herodias would excuse us. I had no idea that
Antipas....”
But at that instant the Tetrarch’s head slipped from its cradling hand,
and he fell face downward upon the cushion. The sudden drop awakened
him, and he twisted his legs around heavily and sat up. The leader of
the musicians, seeing him, signaled his men to begin playing and
motioned to the dancers to return.
“No! No!” shouted the Tetrarch. “We have had enough of their dancing!
But now, my friends”—Antipas faced right and left to look along the
couches, as his guests began to sit up—“I shall provide you with more
novel entertainment.” He paused and reached for his wine goblet. “I ask
your pardon for having gone to sleep, although I’m sure a number of you
did likewise. During our stay at Machaerus I have been overindulging in
food and wine and, for a man of my age, certainly, other more strenuous
pleasures.” He ran his thick tongue over his greasy lips and smiled
lewdly. “But now”—he signaled two of the guards standing at the doorway
opening upon the terrace—“go into the dungeon and fetch to our birthday
feast the Wilderness prophet.”
Herodias whirled about to confront him, her countenance betraying both
anger and amazement. “Why should the Tetrarch bring that depraved madman
here to insult his guests, his wife, and himself? Has the Tetrarch
permitted too much wine and too many women...?”
“Patience, my dear! And be calm. I am not having him brought before us
to insult us. On the contrary, he will ask our pardon for his
intemperate words, and we shall release him.”
“Release him! By all the gods, can the Tetrarch be speaking seriously?
Does he for one moment contemplate giving this notorious insurrectionist
his freedom to resume his agitating against us, against Rome...?”
“But, my dear Tetrarchess, Rome, as represented by the Centurion
Cornelius,” he interrupted, as he glanced toward the centurion and then
turned his head the other way to address his wife, “thinks that
releasing this man will be not only an evidence of the Tetrarch’s
magnanimity but also a politic act greatly pleasing to a countless
number of our Jewish brothers. It was he who suggested....”
“But are not you Tetrarch of Galilee and Peraea? Was it not your wife
and you, not the centurion, whom this revolutionary castigated so
bitterly? And has he not sought to inflame the people even against
Rome?”
Claudia had turned to confront Cornelius; she said nothing, but her eyes
were sharply questioning. He bent forward and spoke quietly, so that
none of the others would hear.
“I did suggest that it would be a good idea—especially in so far as
Sejanus is concerned—for him to free the man, since it would please the
Jews and the man is plainly no insurrectionist against Rome. But I
didn’t know he meant to have the fellow brought before us. The man
should have been freed quietly, with no fanfare.”
“Frankly, I think he would have done better,” Claudia whispered to
Cornelius, “to have had the fellow beheaded, but quietly.” She leaned
nearer the centurion. “Antipas craves attention; he tries to be
dramatic. He’s always....”
But suddenly she stopped, for the guards, flanking the manacled
prisoner, were entering the great hall. They escorted John into the open
square before the Tetrarch’s table.
“Unbind him,” the Tetrarch commanded, “and step back from him.”
In an instant the guards had removed the shackles about the prophet’s
wrists and retreated to their former places at the doorway.
Though not all the Tetrarch’s guests had completely sobered, every eye
was on the Wilderness preacher. In the months he had been imprisoned in
the Machaerus dungeon, John had lost the leathery deep burn of the
desert, but otherwise he was little changed. He was tall and erect and
perhaps even more gaunt than he had appeared to be the day Antipas had
ordered his arrest; his coarse brown robe, belted with a woven rope at
the waist, hung loosely about him. But his eyes still blazed with the
zealot’s fire as, relaxed and silent, he stood calmly facing the
Tetrarch.
“You are the Prophet John of the Wilderness and the Jordan Valley?”
Antipas asked, his tone and manner almost friendly.
“Have I been so long in your dungeon, O Tetrarch, that you can’t be sure
you know me?”
The question and the tone in which it was framed were sarcastic, even
patronizing, but the Tetrarch appeared to take no offense.
“It was an idle query, and you have been a long time in prison. Perhaps
your intemperate words to the Tetrarch and the Tetrarchess have been
sufficiently punished.” Antipas smiled blandly and rubbed his fat hands
together. “Our banqueting this day is an occasion of joy and merriment;
it is our birthday and to mark it further the Tetrarch is happy to
demonstrate before these our honored guests, including even the wife of
the great Procurator Pontius Pilate”—he bowed toward Claudia, who had
been listening avidly—“and our honored Centurion Cornelius, his softness
of heart toward his subjects. Today a group of the prophet’s
followers”—now he bowed toward John—“has petitioned the Tetrarch to
liberate him. These men assured us that you”—he spoke directly to the
gaunt preacher—“have never had any thought of insurrection against the
government of Rome or the Tetrarch but that you were concerned only with
the promulgation of our true religion. I agreed I would grant their
petition. Now as soon as you satisfy me that you will cause us no
further trouble and express your regret for the intemperate and
malicious words with which you castigated the Tetrarch and his beloved
Tetrarchess, as soon as you assure us that you have repented of your
evil words....”
“Repented!” John’s eyes blazed. “I have nothing for which to repent to
you, O Tetrarch! My repentance is to the God of Israel against whom I
have sinned and continue to sin. But I have done you no evil. I call
upon you to repent, O you of evil and lustful heart, you robber of your
brother’s bed!” The prophet lifted himself upon his sandaled toes and
pointed with lean forearm straight upward toward the ceiling dome.
“Repent! Repent! Repent, for your days are numbered! The Messiah of God,
Him of Whom I spoke in the Wilderness and along the Jordan lowlands, had
come! Even now He walks up and down Galilee preaching of the coming of
the Kingdom and bringing blessed salvation to those whose ears are bent
to hear Him. The time of repentance, O Tetrarch, is now!” He lowered his
gaunt arm, and the robe fell about it, and he swept it in an arc in the
faces of the diners on the square of couches. “Repent! Repent! Cast away
your sins and be cleansed, and be baptized!”
Suddenly the preacher paused, and his blazing eyes settled upon the
Tetrarchess. He thrust out his arm and held it before the startled
woman’s face. “And you, repent, you evil woman, you deserter of your
lawful bed, return to your husband, forswear your adulterous
cohabiting....”