The Queen's Handmaid (30 page)

When had he grown into such a man of conviction and strength? Working under Simon had already changed him, and she could see the influence of the zealot on David’s maturing faith.

“David, I know you believe I am somehow special, but aren’t the scrolls the most important thing? Getting them into the hands of those who need them, of those who are even now preparing for the Messiah—this is much more important than who becomes the messenger.”

He was shaking his head before she finished. She would not dissuade him, she could see it. She stood and paced away from him, then back again. “You leave me no choice, then, David. I must take the scrolls with me. And what if I do not return? What if I never come back to Jerusalem?”

“You will be back. It is your destiny.”

“Ach!” She waved a hand. “You are arguing in circles!”

“Perhaps.” He shrugged one shoulder, seemingly amused by her frustration. “But I am right.”

“Very well. I will take them. And someday I will return.”

He nodded once. “How can I help?”

By the time darkness fell, all was ready.

In Mariamme’s chamber, Alexandra embraced her daughter stiffly, then pushed her toward the door. “Go. Go quickly. I will see to Joseph.”

In the corridor, Mariamme whispered something to Leodes, then gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. The sweet man flushed and nodded, then retained his post as they fled.

Lydia led the way to the lower level, Mariamme trailing. Somewhere in the upper corridors, Sohemus would be attending Salome, making certain that the king’s sister did not emerge from her chamber.

Lydia motioned to Mariamme when they reached the courtyard. “We will go through the storerooms, not the kitchens.” She led the queen underground, through the maze of rooms that honeycombed under the kitchen complex and then up a narrow set of stairs at the back of the palace. Stairs that opened at a back door used mainly for deliveries during the day.

They bypassed the kitchens and any servants or slaves who might be working. Hopefully their exit had been completely unseen.

A nondescript wagon, splintered and weathered, waited in the street outside the kitchen as arranged. Inside was everything they would need for the journey, including a wooden box in the bottom of a sack that had traveled from Alexandria to Rome, from Masada to Samaria to Jerusalem. Perhaps the scrolls would accompany her to the grave.

The wagon’s driver was bundled in a heavy mantle and facing forward.

With whispered apologies, Lydia helped Mariamme into the back of the wagon. Awkward and unbalanced, the queen stumbled
into the bed and nearly fell. Lydia jumped into the wagon with her, helped lower her to sitting and then, with more apologies, to a prone position.

“Only a few miles, my lady. We will stop and move you as soon as it is safe.”

Mariamme nodded, her bloodless face pale under the cold winter moonlight. She turned on her side and curled inward on herself.

Lydia tried to smile reassuringly, then lifted the blankets over Mariamme.

In the street once more, she glanced with anxiety along the walls of the palace, but they were alone.

Except for David.

He stood outlined in the doorway of the kitchen, and she could not see his expression in the darkness. By the slant of his shoulders he was angry.

She had been strong all day. Had to be strong. She would not falter now.

A quick embrace and she pulled away. But David would have none of it. He clung to her, inhaling deeply.

No, David. Do not cling. There is no use in it.

“I will be back.” She had promised the same to Caesarion. Did he watch incoming ships in the Alexandrian harbor for her, or had he forgotten even her name? How long until David forgot?

“Be safe, Lydia.”

She pulled away, brittle as an overfired clay pot and just as hollow. She would crack into a thousand pieces if she did not go now. One last squeeze of his hands. A quick smile of good-bye.

Simon still said nothing, did not turn when she climbed to her place beside him on the cold wagon seat.

One flick of the reins and they were off. She did not look back.

Simon was known at the city gates, and it took only a few minutes to clear the wall and roll toward the Kidron Valley. On either side, black hills rose in barren silhouette against the purpled sky. No stars shone tonight. Heavy clouds, ominous in their intent, thickened the air.

Lydia felt every rut and crack that must have bounced against Mariamme’s body, as if she were the one lying in the wagon bed. She gritted her teeth against the indignity. After this night, if Lydia could prevent it, Mariamme would never suffer such again.

Lydia counted off the minutes. She would force herself to wait until at least twenty had passed, and then they would rescue Mariamme and place her between them, warm and secure.

Simon shifted in the wagon seat, his arm pressing against hers.

Lydia moved aside, putting space between them.

Neither spoke, for there was nothing to say.

At the bottom of the Kidron Valley, Lydia cleared her throat against the tightness that threatened to choke any speech. “It seems safe to let her out now, yes?”

In response, Simon pulled the horses to the right, then handed the reins to Lydia and jumped from the wagon.

Within a few minutes, Mariamme was in the front of the wagon, sober and shivering.

Lydia wrapped an arm around the queen and pulled her close for warmth. Mariamme’s head dropped to Lydia’s shoulder.

As the miles rolled by, her occasional sniffling nearly broke Lydia’s heart. What new mother ever dreams of being chased from her home on the eve of her child’s birth? It was an atrocity,
and a hatred for Herod grew in Lydia. A hatred that seemed to deaden her further rather than light a fire inside.

When the lights along the top of Jerusalem’s walls extinguished in the distance behind them, Lydia took Mariamme’s chilled hand in her own and leaned forward to glance at Simon’s hard profile. “How much longer?”

He clucked at the horses, as if she had asked him to hurry. “Bethlehem is six miles. We should reach it within the hour.”

Lydia squeezed Mariamme’s fingers. “There is an inn there—it’s all arranged. We’ll stay the night, then in the morning leave before dawn for Caesarea.”

The lights of Bethlehem were not to be compared with Jerusalem’s but were welcome nonetheless. They rolled toward the village, past fields dotted with sheep pens, along a street of tombs, and into the center of town, an open square surrounded by the typical clusters of workshops and stables, an empty market, and a well-lit building that promised to be the inn they sought.

Lydia felt the pull of warm food, a fire, and a bed, but at the same time the end of this leg of their journey would mean yet another good-bye.

And this one more painful than any she had yet experienced.

No. No, there was no need to feel anything at all if she focused on the task, on Mariamme and what must be done.

Simon helped Mariamme from the wagon, bracing her arms for support and taking her unbalanced weight against himself as she half stepped, half fell to the dusty ground outside the inn.

Lydia pushed ahead and went inside. The warmth of a fire, banked at the side of the front room and glowing cheerfully, welcomed her. She shook off the chill and stamped her numb feet a few times.

At the noise, a woman appeared from the back room, apron askew and flour-covered, with cheeks reddened from the heat and a wide smile.

Lydia nodded once. “A special visitor from Jerusalem.” They were the words she had been given to say.

The innkeeper’s eyes sparkled as though they shared a secret. “Of course, of course. We have your room all ready. Upstairs we go.”

Lydia tried to smile. “Not me. I will bring her in.”

Simon was already at the door, Mariamme on his arm.

They stepped into the warm room, and anxiety seemed to roll from Mariamme’s shoulders. There was a crease between her eyes and she walked stiffly, her back slightly bent.

Lydia crossed to her, braced her other arm, and between them they followed the innkeeper to the second level, where a room just as warm as the lower waited, a soft-cushioned bed in its center.

With Mariamme settled, Lydia returned downstairs to help Simon bring in the contents of the wagon, which would be transferred to their new transportation in the early morning.

They moved slowly, both of them. In spite of the cold and the late hour and the wearisome trip, to finish the task meant to say good-bye.

Too soon the wagon was empty, its stores piled in the front room of the inn. Lydia placed her own belongings in the corner. She would take them upstairs when she joined Mariamme.

When Simon was gone.

He stood near the door and she near the fire. The innkeeper had disappeared, probably to bed herself as the hour was late.

Lydia raised her hands to the fire’s warmth, then rubbed her palms together. Would she ever be warm again?

She could think of nothing to say. What cool words would
effect separation between them, without useless emotion complicating the good-bye?

“We should have asked the innkeeper for something warm to fill your stomach before you leave.” She looked toward the back room. “Perhaps I can—”

“I am not hungry.”

She did not look at him. Could not.

The parting from David had seemed to mirror the good-bye she had given Caesarion all those years ago, heavy and suffocating. But this—this good-bye felt more like her parting from Samuel—a ripping away that was like death.

But would they not return, someday? If Herod lived, Mariamme would be safe from the executioner, but her hasty flight would give Herod another reason to destroy her. No, it would not be safe for Mariamme until Herod was dead and a new king, who cared nothing for Mariamme, had taken the throne.

Lydia braced her forehead against the mantel above the fire. What king would that be? Doris’s young son? If Mariamme gave birth to a boy, her boy would forever be seen as a threat.

But Lydia had the Chakkiym to find. How could she remain outside Jerusalem forever?

“You will be back.”

Had Simon heard her thoughts?

She did not turn but felt him cross the room to stand behind her.

The warmth of his hand pressed against her lower back. An intimate gesture, and it should have quickened her pulse, but she felt it as if from a distance, happening to someone else.

Simon turned her to himself, took her cold hands in his own, and lifted them to his mouth to warm them with his breath. Above their clasped hands, his dark eyes were trained on hers.

Her breath caught in her throat and she looked away. Why did he make this more difficult? Was it not better to pretend there was nothing between them, nothing to mourn when it was gone?

For the thousandth time, she chastised herself.
Foolish
girl, for letting it come to this.

“Lydia.”

She pulled her hands to her sides, turned back to the fire that did nothing to melt the ice in her heart.

“I will not leave like this, Lydia.”

“Like what? What is there to say?” The terse words had an air of annoyance she had not intended. But perhaps it was for the best.

Simon uttered a low growl of frustration and smacked both his hands against the blackened stone wall above the fire. “Like this! This cold parting fitting only for strangers who care nothing for each other!”

Lydia dragged in a breath, shaky but deep. “I . . . I am sorry, Simon. It is all I have.”

“Truly?” He whirled on her, circled her waist with a strong arm, and pulled her to him.

The heat of his chest against her own, the feel of his breath against her hair—it burned away her resolve like the sun against the morning fog. But to yield was to feel the separation, and she could not risk the wounding.

His other arm was around her now, his lips pressed to her ear. “Lydia, there are things I must say—”

“Ly—di—a!”

The screech broke them apart like an icy drenching.

She lifted her eyes to the wood beams above them, then shot a glance toward the steps.

“Lydia, come quickly!”

Simon was on her heels as they raced up the narrow wood stairs to the room on the second level.

Mariamme stood in the center of the room, her face even paler than it had been during their journey and the whites of her eyes wide with terror.

Even in the dim light of the tiny terra-cotta oil lamp, the irregular circle of wetness on the floorboards at the queen’s feet told Lydia all she needed to know.

Mariamme’s labor had begun.

Twenty-Seven

F
etch the innkeeper, Simon.”

Lydia crossed the room on sure feet and guided Mariamme to a hard chair. The queen’s arms trembled under her touch.

“Sshh, my lady. All will be well. Have no fear.”

The queen blinked once, twice—slowly, as if she had lost her memory of where they were. “My mother, Lydia. I need my mother.”

And Alexandra should be here. But that was not to be.

“We are here for you, my lady. You will have all the help you need.”