The Queen's Handmaid (13 page)

What had she to fear from Herod of Judea?

Not him, perhaps, but the damage he could wreak on the uneasy alliance between her brother and her husband.

The alliance supposedly sealed and ensured with the gift of Octavia herself.

She had no illusions that a mere marriage was enough to keep Marc Antony and Octavian from tearing each other apart, and if this Herod, with whatever demands and requests he had brought, became a source of contention between them, she would pay the price. She was aligned with both of them now, and the victory of one over the other made her a loser either way. She and her children by another man—a man who had opposed Julius Caesar, the single uniting loyalty between her brother and husband.

She waited at the window for dawn to arrive, watching the
sky through the wooden grid of diamonds as the sun lifted over the seven hills of Rome.

“You have been waiting for me, my lady.” Lydia’s voice at the door held apology and perhaps a bit of fear.

Octavia shrugged and pulled away from the window. “I could not sleep. But now that you are here, I need you to dress me well.” She straightened her back. “I have a meeting to attend.”

Lydia’s deft skill with her hair resulted in a prettier style than the banished handmaid Caelia had ever accomplished, and the girl found new ways to drape fabric around her body in a manner adequately modest yet alluringly feminine.

Octavia examined herself in the blurry bronze. “Yes, that is good. I must remind them all that I am more than a shipment of grain or a camel load of gold and spices.”

“My lady?”

Octavia laughed, quick and humorless. “You would not understand, I am afraid. Servant girls are the most necessary part of a Roman household. Wives, on the other hand, have only one purpose—as a bribe to keep powerful men from destroying each other.”

Lydia blinked at the harsh statement and lifted her eyebrows.

“Do not look so surprised, my girl. You have spent too much time in the palace of a woman who stands in defiance of her place in the world. Here in Rome, it is the men who wield the power.”

“I think perhaps you are wrong, my lady. For a woman to be used thus—as the glue that will hold two mighty men together—she must command great influence indeed.”

Octavia flexed her shoulders and tugged a final adjustment to her dress. “I pray to Cybele that you are right, Lydia. For today there will be three of them, and it may fall to me to be that very glue.”

Neither Antony nor his charismatic young friend Herod were to be found when Octavia emerged from her chamber, and she arranged her own transportation to the house of her brother.

When the slaves lowered the litter for her to step to Octavian’s graveled garden, her brother emerged, a slight scowl on his youthful face. At only twenty-four, he had already grown accustomed to the mantle of his adopted father Julius Caesar’s money and power, and the legions of loyal soldiers at his disposal made it impossible for any rival to dismiss him because of his age.

“Expecting someone else, brother?” She smiled sweetly, though he was certain to catch the acid beneath her honeyed tone.

Octavian looked over her shoulder, through his front gardens and beyond. “This Herod I have heard so much about—I would have thought you would still be at home, hanging on every delightful word that fell from his lips.”

She kissed both of her brother’s cheeks, an obligatory peck that he did not return. “You know you are the only one whose company I find anything but tedious, Octavian.”

“Caesar. It is four years now I have been telling you that my name is Caesar.”

She exhaled and tilted her head. “Little brother, I am not one of your generals.” She waved a hand and pushed past him into the house. “Besides, how can I keep up with your name? It changes as often as the seasons. What is it now, Gaius Julius Caesar Divi Filius? Ridiculous.”

He followed at her heels. “Ridiculous that after my adopted father’s deification, I should also be called Son of the Divine?”

The anger that sparked in his voice did not suit her purposes. She stroked his arm and smiled. “Show me the new frescoes in the
triclinium
while we wait for the others.”

Octavian’s wife, Scribonia, lay across a couch in the dining chamber, morose and petulant as always.

“Scribonia is feeling ill these days.” Octavian seemed to feel the need to excuse her natural state of unpleasantness. “The pregnancy, no doubt.”

She gave her sister-in-law a smile, called from a false place within her. Scribonia was five years older than Octavian—
Caesar
—and it was no secret that she had been forced to divorce her husband and marry Octavian for political alliance. In the outrageously tangled web that was Roman politics, Scribonia’s sister’s husband, Sextus, was the son of Pompey and a man both Octavian and Marc Antony were working hard to court, since Sextus had taken control of the straits of Sicily and begun blocking grain ships sailing for Rome.

And as if the intrigue weren’t complicated enough, Scribonia had no love for Marc Antony, since it was his late wife Fulvia’s daughter, Clodia, whom Octavian divorced to marry her.

Disgusting, all of it, and barely worth keeping track of. When the histories were written of this great Roman Republic, would they tell of all the women whose lives were upended and twisted like trees in a hurricane, traded and bartered like coin in the marketplace?

And yet, perhaps what the servant girl Lydia had said was true. Power was yet in her hands.

She dutifully admired the freshly frescoed walls, then followed her brother to the receiving room. Thankfully, Scribonia did not join them. She would be no help in keeping peace.

They did not have long to wait. Marc Antony and Herod breezed into the receiving room ahead of the servant who tried to announce them. Antony was all smiles and warm embraces for Octavian, a show for Herod.

“What an honor”—the dark-skinned Herod bowed to both men—“to be received so well by the two greatest men of the Republic.”

Octavian laughed, pleased at the flattery. “Let us not forget Lepidus.”

Herod shrugged a narrow shoulder and smiled, a sly smile of conspiracy over the missing third of the Triumvirate. “Africa is a long way off.”

The three sat, and Octavian spread his hands. “But you have recently come from the coast of that great continent, Herod. Tell me of Cleopatra. Is she as beguiling as ever?” He gave a slant-eyed look at Marc Antony. “Were you able to resist her charms, as both my father, the Divine Julius, and our own Antony here were never able to do?”

Octavia exhaled heavily, her annoyance loud enough that the three men were forced to acknowledge her presence. Must they talk about her husband’s lover with her in the room? Cleopatra’s twins were born to Marc Antony before Octavia had a chance to bear him any children of her own.

Herod laughed, but it was a nervous laugh of discomfort, and his look darted warily between the two men. “She is well, Caesar, and sends her great affection.”

Antony crossed one leg over the other and folded his arms. “Let us leave off talk of Egypt. It is Judea that concerns us today. Judea and that young upstart Antigonus, who has only added to our Parthian problem by aligning with them.”

Octavian leaned forward, his gaze taking Herod’s measure. “Yes, the Judean problem. The little region continues to plague. But Antony tells me that you, dear Herod, are the solution.”

The meeting continued for some time with Octavia as
spectator for the most part. Each time the exchange between her husband and brother grew testy, she interjected a soothing flattery, an inane observation, a timely reminder. And as the conversation continued, it became clear that Herod’s charm had won him yet another supporter in her brother. She breathed her relief. Thanks to Herod’s wit and her shrewdness, there would be no falling out today.

She was more than glue. She was the oil that could keep the gears of Rome running. Perhaps unseen and unappreciated, but valuable nonetheless.

And when the histories of the Republic were written, perhaps there would be a line or two about her.

Thirteen

Y
our visit with your brother went well, I trust, mistress.” Octavia sailed in, unwound the blue
stola
from her shoulders, and flung it across the bed. “Excellent. Your Herod will get all he needs from Rome. And Antony still serves as a lubricant between Herod and my brother, rather than an irritant.”

The political machinations of Egypt and of Rome held little interest for Lydia, but it was good to see Octavia’s spirits lifted. She took up the blue stola from the bed and hung it with others of its kind.

“But I received some disturbing news in the courtyard, I am afraid.” Octavia dropped a ruby necklace to her dressing table. “What do you know of this piece?”

Lydia frowned. “You wore it two nights ago, I believe. Nothing more.”

“It was handed to me by Herod’s girl, Riva. She claims she took it from you. That you stole it.”

“What?” Lydia’s breath shallowed.

“The truth, Lydia. That is all I require.”

She hesitated. “I do not know the truth, my lady. Only suspicion and guesses, and it does not seem right—”

“I am not giving you a choice. I will hear your suspicion and guesses, if that is all you have.”

Lydia ran a hand through her hair, tangling it in the curls at her neck. “Riva has taken a dislike to me. I don’t know why. I think perhaps she covets the position of handmaid to Herod’s future wife, which he has promised to me.”

Promised
was perhaps too strong a word. Even now, Herod might have already agreed to leave her behind.

“I would guess she is jealous of nearly everything about you, Lydia.” She waved a hand. “But go on.”

Lydia lifted her palms and shrugged. “I can only assume that she stole the necklace herself, to make her accusation.”

Octavia nodded and seemed satisfied. She turned to her dressing table and laid the ruby necklace across it. “All the more reason for you to rid yourself of that awful Jewish lot—or whatever it is that Herod calls himself—and stay with me.”

Lydia’s heart raced against this news. “You flatter me, my lady—”

“I know you will object. But I have decided.”

Lydia raised pleading eyes.

“I must keep you near, to keep the darkness at bay.” She inhaled deeply. “And I will give you a good life. No troubling with a husband or ruining your body with children.”

These assurances only frightened Lydia further. She had no wish to be alone forever. She dropped to her knees and clutched Octavia’s hands. “Please, my lady.”

Octavia’s eyebrows lifted, but she returned Lydia’s handclasp.

“Please, you must know that serving you these last few days
has been my pleasure—more pleasure than I ever had serving Cleopatra, I assure you.”

At this, the corner of Octavia’s lip tugged into a pleased smile.

“But, my lady, I must go to Judea. I beg you to let me go.”

“I need you, Lydia.”

“You will find another. I know you will. Find someone old and ugly and kind—someone Antony would not even notice.”

Octavia laughed. “Good advice.”

Lydia smiled with her. “Please understand that it is only my duty to Judea that takes me from you. I am so grateful for your trust in me.”

“Duty?”

“I cannot explain. But there is someone in Jerusalem I must see. It is where my mother was born.”

“Ah, family.” At this Octavia pulled her hands from Lydia’s grasp and turned away once more. “Family means something very different to Roman nobles than it does to the plebs and servant class, I’ve found. You all know loyalty, where we know only treachery.”

“But you are smart, my lady. You will protect yourself and your children.”

Octavia seemed lost to her thoughts for a moment, but then nodded. “Yes. Yes, I will.” She lifted the ruby once more, draped its gold chain across her hand. “And you must fulfill your duty to your family as well.” She opened Lydia’s palm, pressed the cool ruby against it, and closed Lydia’s fingers over the stone. “Perhaps this will help.”

“My lady—I cannot—”

“Yes, you can.” She smiled conspiratorially. “You should have seen Riva’s face when I insisted that you had not stolen it—that I gave it to you as a gift.”

Lydia pressed her lips together, fighting a grin.

Octavia patted her cheek. “I was in a dark place when you arrived, Lydia. It is different now. This is the only way I can thank you.”

“You found the strength within yourself, mistress. It was not I.”

“But it was you who showed me that the strength was there to be found.” Octavia gave Lydia a quick embrace, then pulled away, eyes shining.

Lydia swallowed against the sudden emotion that tightened her throat. Another good-bye.

“Now go, Lydia.” Octavia smiled. “Judea—and your family—awaits.”

Fourteen

L
ydia! Tie that flap down!”

Riva’s shrill voice matched the whistle of hot wind tearing through the encampment tent, ripping at any vulnerability.

She did not need Riva’s instruction. Her hands were already straining at the leathers that laced the tent corners. The thin strips were a futile match for the desert that baked them dry and brittle, as it did the nerves of every member of Herod’s staff. The leather bit into her hands, already cracked and bleeding. She breathed a curse at this place forsaken by all the gods.

Did the soldiers, whose tents ringed this one, feel the attack by heat as furious as any enemy troops?

They worked at a feverish pace, each of them, inside Herod’s massive command tent. He had gone out to meet Silo and could return at any moment, for the meeting that would be the culmination of the four brutal months since they had landed at Ptolemais, far north of this desert wasteland.

David hauled tables and couches from the loaded wagons they had brought south through the mouth of the tent where
other servants relieved him and moved them into place. Riva and the women scurried in and out carrying amphorae of wine and water, baskets of breads and cheeses, olives and dates—all the stores that remained since their march began. Lydia focused on hanging the curtains to divide private from public areas inside the tent and unrolling woven carpets in a pointless attempt to block the sand.