27
When the vessel eased in to dock just below the Sublicious Bridge, almost at the spot from which the “Palmyra” had started its voyage, Longinus went ashore. Quickly he engaged a loitering freed slave to help with his luggage. He had brought little from Phoenicia, only his clothing and a few small presents for his mother, principally some choice pieces of glass, and the package he was delivering to Sejanus.
“I’ll carry this,” he said to the fellow; “it’s glass and fragile.” He picked up the bundle, heavily wrapped. “And I’ll take this spare toga, too. You can carry the remainder. I don’t want any sedan chair; I’d rather walk. I want to get my land legs back.”
The toga had been wrapped about the money packet, which Longinus had kept securely under his arm as he descended from the ship. But it was an innocent looking bundle and only its weight would have excited a bearer’s suspicion. Longinus had determined not to let it get out of his possession until he had locked it in his father’s safe to await its delivery to the Prefect.
They walked from the pier along the way that went eastward from the bridge into the dense, traffic-jammed heart of the city. At the foot of Palatine Hill they turned left and walked northward past the western front of the Imperial Palace. Glancing over his shoulder as they reached the northwest corner of the sprawling great structure, Longinus had a glimpse of the wing that had been Claudia’s apartment; once again he picked out the bedroom window through which that morning he had heard the rising bugle at Castra Praetoria.
“I wonder....”
“Sir, did you say something?” His helper, trudging behind, paused.
“No.” Longinus turned to face him. “I was just thinking, talking to myself.”
All the way from the dock area Longinus had been retracing the route he had come with his century from Castra Praetoria the day they sailed for Palestine. But a hundred paces farther on, instead of continuing past the Forum of Augustus on their left, he turned abruptly westward. “I want to walk through the Forum Romanum,” he explained. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been there. I’ve lost touch with Rome. What’s been happening lately?”
“Very little, sir, as far as I’ve seen.” The fellow shook his head resignedly. “No triumphs, as I recall, no big ones anyway, and precious few games.”
“Why haven’t there been more?”
“Oh, I don’t know, sir. They say the Emperor gets no enjoyment out of such things, and he’s not here in Rome most of the time anyway, and I hear it told that the Prefect doesn’t want to spend the money....”
“They do say that?”
“Now, sir, I have heard such talk. Understand, I don’t know anything about it; I don’t know anything about them, the Emperor and the Prefect. Not a thing. I don’t even know whether I’d recognize either one of them if he came right up to us now.” The fellow’s fear that he had spoken too boldly was obvious. “All I ever get done, sir, is work; I have to struggle hard to make a living. Seems that it’s just like it’s always been in Rome, the way I see it, which is that the rich get richer and the poor get poorer.” He grinned good-naturedly. “I’m meaning no offense to you, Centurion; likely you’re one of the rich ones.”
“I understand, and I suspect it’s a sound observation, that the rich do get richer and the poor get poorer, I mean. But it’s not true of Rome alone; it’s that way everywhere, isn’t it, throughout the world?”
“I couldn’t say as to that, sir. Rome’s pretty much my world.”
Rome was his world, too, Longinus told himself a moment later as the two were propelled suddenly from the shaded cavern of the cobblestoned narrow street into the widened stir and commotion of a veritable forest of marbled columns and statuary.
The centurion’s heart lifted as he strode once more into the Forum Romanum, that busy, marble-crowded flat between the Tiber’s westward bend and the mansion-crowned hills. He took a deep breath, and his chest swelled.
... This is the veritable beating, pulsing heart of Rome, and Rome is the world. Here is reality. Here are solidity, strength, planning made real, dreams hewn in enduring stone. Here are wealth, accomplishment, power, might. Not twenty paces across there is the Millenarium Aureum, the resplendent bronze column set up to mark the center of the Roman world, the point from which miles are counted along the highways and their joining sea lanes stretching to the ends of the known earth to bind Rome into one colossal, unconquerable, enduring Empire!...
They paused to catch their breath. Longinus set down the glass, but he continued to clutch the toga-wrapped packet under his arm. In another moment they would push once more into the jostling, shoving multitude milling through the Forum’s crossways. Suddenly the centurion remembered Cornelius and their discussion that afternoon as the two men had sat in the wrecked rowboat near the glassworks. He smiled grimly.
... But this is Rome. This is reality. This is accomplishment, creation. I can reach out and run my hand over the stone and feel these marbled creations of men; a thousand years from now, were I to live so long, I could rub my hands across their imperishable cold faces. These are tangible things, and Rome is tangible, her power, her strength, her wealth, her dominance over the world. Cornelius may prate of his old tutor’s preachments about the imperishability of the intangibles and the reality of things unseen. But these statues, these temples, this Millenarium Aureum, are tangible. Rome is carved statuary and fluted marble magnificence; Rome is spacious mansions and marching great armies flaunting their ensigns. Rome is poverty, too, and injustice and ugliness at times and in places, but Rome is no pale intangibles, no vaporous conjurations of an eastern philosopher. Rome is not even her gods. This is Rome, this marbled splendor of the Forum; Rome is here and now and touchable and real, and Rome, by all the gods or no gods, will endure.
... Rome is something else. Rome is strength and power and substance, but Rome is also grace and beauty. Examine these graceful columns, these elegant pediments. Rome is feminine, a beautiful woman. Rome, by the great Jove, is Claudia. Indeed! What is more Rome than Claudia; what is more Claudia than Rome? Rome is beauty and pleasure, tangible, real, to be experienced, enjoyed.
... And Rome will endure. That carpenter of Galilee, wandering up and down the seacoast with his little band of poor working people, talking of intangibles to illiterate fisherfolk and the dwellers in Jerusalem’s festering Ophel, that fellow to overcome Rome! Even under the silvery softness of a full moon beside the sea in Galilee, it was a preposterous notion. But here in the middle of the Forum, with confirmation of Rome’s might everywhere around....
“By all the gods, Cornelius. Can’t you see?”
The man carrying Longinus’ belongings whirled suddenly around. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he asked, “did you command anything of me?”
Longinus laughed. “No,” he answered. “I was just thinking aloud again. I must be growing old.” He reached down and picked up the glassware package. “But let’s be moving on. I’m anxious to get to my father’s house.” He pointed the directions. “Out that way and on through the Forum of Augustus to Via Longa. The house is on Quirinal Hill.”
28
Longinus placed the package on the desk in front of the Prefect. “Sir, I’m delivering this to you just as I received it at the glassworks,” he said. “I have not seen the contents; I don’t know what’s inside. The package when it was handed to me was sealed as you see it now; the seals have not been broken.”
“Thank you, Centurion, for bringing it; it has been quite a responsibility, I know.” The Prefect’s darting eyes, Longinus saw, had examined the package already. The centurion, appraising Sejanus in the short moment he had been in the ornate chamber, had observed no change in the Prefect’s appearance. Judging by the man’s looks and demeanor, it might well have been only yesterday that they had last met. The small, cold eyes were just as carefully calculating as they had been the day the Prefect had given Longinus his orders and sent him and Cornelius eastward aboard the “Palmyra.” Now the eyes were disarmingly friendly. “My purpose in having it so well sealed was not because I didn’t trust you, Longinus, but because I wished the manager at the glassworks to know that no one but himself could be blamed in the event that the contents were subsequently found short. I knew that he would therefore make sure that the packet left Phoenicia intact.” The blinking, small eyes narrowed. “So actually, you see, it was a protection for you.” With a flourish of the hand he motioned to the chair in front of the massive desk. “Sit down, Centurion.”
“Thank you, sir.” Longinus took the seat and faced the Prefect.
Sejanus leaned forward and crossed his hands on the desk. “In all likelihood, Centurion, you’ve been wondering why I summoned you to Rome.”
“I have wondered, sir.”
“Yes, I’m sure you have. And I’m sure you’ve also guessed that I dispatched my message to you before receiving your report.”
“I had presumed so, sir.”
“And right you were. Had I received the report but a few days earlier I would not have summoned you here. But once I’d received your communication, I had no way of countermanding my order to you so that you would get it before sailing for Rome.” He sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest; his entire attitude radiated good humor. “But I’m glad it happened as it did, Longinus. I’d rather like to hear in person from you concerning the situation in Palestine. It was a good report, Centurion, and comprehensive, so far as such written reports go. But I had the feeling in reading it that you might have had further information to give had you been able to talk with me directly. Perhaps discretion had cramped your writing hand.” Now his smile was disarming. “But here, with no ears to hear us but our own, we can talk with complete freedom. I, too, can say things that I would not dare write.”
The Prefect unfolded his arms and, leaning forward, drummed his fingers on the desk. He studied the centurion briefly through narrowed eyes, then sat back again.
“How did you leave the Procurator, Longinus?”
“He was quite well, sir, when I left him at Caesarea. But your message overtook me at Tiberias, and I had then been away from Caesarea for some time. I went on to the glassworks and sailed from Tyre, as you suggested.”
“Then you have seen Herod Antipas quite recently?”
“Yes, sir. I saw the Tetrarch and Herodias and told them good-by just before leaving Tiberias. I had escorted them to Galilee from their landing at Caesarea.”
“And how did the daughter of King Aretas accept Herod’s new wife?”
“She didn’t, sir. She has left him and returned to her father. She....”
“By winged Mercury!” Sejanus lunged forward and slammed his fist against the desk. “Gone, you say? Fled to Aretas? By great Jupiter! But this you did not report, Longinus!”
“Sir, Herod didn’t know she was gone until we arrived at his capital. I was preparing to dispatch a report to you when I received your summons, and then I decided I would bring the report in person, instead.” He ventured a wan smile, and the Prefect himself relaxed.
“I understand; you did right, Centurion.” Then his countenance darkened, and his narrow forehead wrinkled. “This is a matter of considerable moment; I shall come back to it presently.” He shook his head. “Yes, it could have dire repercussions. But for the moment, let us speak of more pleasant things.” His small weasel-like face lighted with a thin but suggestive smile. “Longinus, when did you last see Claudia? How is the Procurator’s wife?”
“I saw her in Tiberias the day before I left there for Phoenicia, sir. Herodias and Herod Antipas had invited her to accompany them to Tiberias for a visit.”
“And Pilate didn’t object to her going up into Galilee with them ... and you?” He licked his lips and drew them in thin lines across his teeth.
“If he did, sir, he did not indicate anything of the sort to me.”
“I’m sure the Procurator would do nothing that he thought might displease the Emperor’s stepdaughter. But what he thinks, however, is a different matter, isn’t it?”
“I’m sure it is, sir.” Longinus expected momentarily that the Prefect would begin plying him with intimately personal questions concerning his relations with the Procurator’s wife, and he wondered desperately how he should answer. But, happily, Sejanus turned away from the Procurator’s affairs to return to a discussion of the Tetrarch’s.
“You were saying a moment ago, Longinus”—the familiar scowl had returned to the Prefect’s face—“that Herod’s wife has gone back to old Aretas. Have you had any reports concerning his feelings toward Herod for the way his daughter has been treated?”
“He was greatly angered, according to reports coming back to Galilee, sir.”
Sejanus shook his head slowly. “No doubt.” He reflected a moment. “Has there been any talk of possible reprisal?”
“There has been some talk that Aretas might attempt to punish Herod. But 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
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....”
“Hold your tongue!” Herodias, eyes flashing her uncontrollable rage, her cheeks flaming, had sprung to her feet. She leaned across the food-covered, disordered table. “By all the gods, O Tetrarch”—she turned to grasp her husband’s shoulder as he sat upright on the couch—“I will hear no more of this evil madman’s prattle. Send him away—have him shot with arrows, or order him beheaded, or throw him again into the dungeon—by the great Jove, I don’t care what you do with him, but I will not remain here with him and be further insulted!” She shook his shoulder furiously. “Do you understand, Antipas? Do you understand, by the Great Mother Ceres?”
The Tetrarch stumbled to his feet, swayed, but clutched the table edge to steady himself. “Take your seat, my dear,” he said evenly. “I understand very well what you say. And you speak the truth.” He turned from her to face the desert preacher. “I had meant to hand you your freedom, Wilderness prophet; I had meant to give you into the care of your friends who remained here tonight to take you back into Judaea. But your vicious tirade against us forces me to change my plans for you.” He beckoned to the two guards. “Manacle him, and return him to the dungeon,” he commanded.
Quickly they fettered his wrists and, grasping him by the arms, led him toward the door through which moments ago they had brought him into the chamber. John walked silently, head erect and unafraid. But as they were about to go out through the doorway, he jerked his arms free, and whirled about to face the Tetrarch and his guests. Raising the manacled hands, he pointed toward the Tetrarch. “Repent, adulterer!” His blazing eyes sought the still incensed Herodias. “And you, whore of Rome, get you back to your Babylon!”
The guards jerked their prisoner through the doorway, and the door closed heavily behind them. The banqueters, silenced by the bitter exchange between Herodias and the prophet, listened to the retreating footsteps of the three along the corridor.
“The fellow’s a fool,” Claudia observed in a low aside to Cornelius, “but he does have courage.”
“Yes, he must believe that he’s serving his Yahweh and Yahweh’s Messiah,” the centurion agreed; “that faith must be the source of his courage.”
“Amazing. I cannot understand how these Jews can be so swayed by such silly superstition. I do wonder what Antipas will do with him; Herodias, if she could, would have his head off in a minute. And so would I, if he had talked to me as he did to her.” She tossed her head and smiled indifferently. “But why should I be concerned about this Jewish fanatic? I don’t care one green Campanian fig what happens to him.”
As she reached for her wine goblet, which a servant had refilled, Antipas set his down and stood up. The servant hastened to fill the Tetrarch’s. Antipas licked his thick lips. “By the beard of the High Priest,” he said, “I really intended to liberate the prophet. His imprisonment is on his own head.” He clutched the table’s edge to steady himself again. Then he grasped his wine goblet and drained it in one gulp. The servant raced around the table to refill the empty glass. Antipas picked it up and twirled it slowly on its slender stem, “Drink, my friends! Let us dispel this sudden gloom. Isn’t this the Tetrarch’s birthday? Drink! Drink!” He downed the wine as his guests, lifting their goblets, drank to their host. Antipas clapped his hands. “And now, music and the dancing women!”
The leader signaled to his men, and the musicians began their lively playing, as the Arabian dancers came scampering again into the hollow square before the tables. Antipas sat down, rested his head on the palm of his left hand, and with his right reached for the glass.
“Soon now he’ll be very drunk, and we can escape,” Cornelius whispered to Claudia. “He’s still afraid of the Wilderness preacher, and he will try to drown his fears in wine.”
“But he just ordered the fellow back to the dungeon.”
“He also fears Herodias. He’ll free John, though, as soon as he can do so without his wife’s knowing about it.”
The tempo of the music was increasing, and the women, refreshed by the long intermission they had been having and the food and wine they had been served, were fast approaching a frenzy of abandon in their wild convolutions and sensual writhings. For a few moments the jaded Tetrarch, watching the brazenly lewd gyrations of the dancing women, appeared to be gaining renewed stimulation. But quickly his interest faded; he sat up on his couch and straightened himself. “Hold!” he commanded, waving his hand aloft. “Enough of this. We are surfeited on dark women.”
The music stopped. “Let them go,” said Antipas, nodding toward the leader of the musicians. The man bowed to the Tetrarch and, turning, waved his dismissal to the dancers, who went tripping out. Once again the great triclinium was as still and the guests as suddenly silent as they had been at the dramatic entrance of the gaunt prophet.
Now the Tetrarch, beaming, looked to his left beyond his Tetrarchess. “It is our wish that our beloved daughter Salome honor our birthday by dancing for the Tetrarch and his guests,” he declared in honeyed tones. “Will you not dance for us, my dear child?”
Cornelius leaned forward to watch Herodias’ daughter. Salome seemed amazed at her stepfather’s request. “But, Sire,” she ventured to protest, as she turned on her couch to face the unctuously smiling Tetrarch, “doesn’t my dear father know that I am not a dancer? Surely he prefers the dancing of women trained in the art.” She shook her head firmly. “Sire, I would not wish to display before this company just how poorly....”