The Queen's Handmaid (42 page)

Thirty-Seven

S
imon had people everywhere.

Lydia had never realized the extent of his network, the number of palace staff in place for when the time was right. The men who worked through the city under cover of darkness, striking at Israel’s enemies. If she had known, she would have been terrified for Simon.

For Simon, and for David.

As she suspected, David had become one of Simon’s followers. And in the darkness of an underground storage room once more, Lydia and Simon shared everything with him, showed him the tallit, given by Simon’s father. And in spite of the horror of the day, Lydia found herself smiling at his outright joy.

How he had grown since she first met him at the rail of the cursed ship sailing out of Alexandria. He had been an awkward boy, shy and at odds with his body. Now David stood before her a man, ready to assume the mantle of responsibility that Simon was passing to him, as a father to a son. He nodded at each of Simon’s instructions, sober and focused on names and places and objectives.

Jonah and Esther came, brought somehow by Simon’s messengers. Simon shared his joy over the scrolls, but there were many tears at the parting that must be. In a solemn moment, Simon took the hand of David and the hand of Jonah and joined them together.

Simon was leaving the fight behind, but he was leaving it in good hands.

And then their friends were gone, leaving them to wait in the darkness while the threads of Simon’s influence were pulled to arrange safe passage not only from the palace but from Jerusalem as well.

For they were going to Persia. Though held by the Parthians now, those who had lived there for generations since the exile still clung to the old ways, to the old names.

This was the charge laid upon Simon by his father and grandfather.
“When the scrolls are found, they must be returned.”
The Chakkiym still lived and studied, they had promised. Back in Persia they were waiting for news of the Messiah, of the coming of the kingdom. The scrolls must be there when the time of the end was come.

They would travel north, through Samaria and on to Damascus, then across to take the Persian Royal Road southward. And within two months, Lydia would see the Persian Empire.

The afternoon of waiting in the storeroom passed swiftly, with whispered conversation about the future, sad remembrances of Mariamme, shared concerns over what would become of her children, left here in the palace with their wicked grandmother and aunt to raise them. Lydia would have to leave all of that in the hands of HaShem, whom she had learned to trust in the journey from Alexandria to this moment.

In a sense, she had been right. A life built on pleasing others to be loved, worrying whether people accepted her, loved her, were faithful to her, would never work. People would abandon and reject, be taken from her, leaving her feeling guilty and worthless or resentful. She must decide that who she is must be grounded elsewhere, in the confidence born of being God’s. A life built on
this
truth would allow her to reach out and risk, to love others joyfully and without fear, with a hope built on the secure love of a God who would never forsake her.

When David came at last with promises that all was ready, she stood eagerly, stretching her stiff legs.

Simon caught her hand in his own. “You are not sad to leave Jerusalem?”

She frowned. “Though I have spent years here, I have seen little of it. This palace has been something between a home and a prison. I have not come to think of Jerusalem as my city. I have barely come to think of myself as a Jew.” She smiled at David. “There is only one thing I will miss in Judea.”

David held his arms out to her, and she went to him and let him wrap strong arms around her.

“Thank you, my friend.” She whispered the words against his chest. “I should have been lost without you. You have done me nothing but good from the moment we met on that ship, and I am so proud of the man you have become.”

He sniffed and pulled away.

“No sadness. We go to fulfill what was always meant to be.” She squeezed his hands. “And we will write. When it is safe, we will send letters with news, and you will send letters of your bride, and your house full of children, and the amazing things you will build with these hands.”

He smiled through tears and nodded, then turned to Simon for a clasping of arms, a slapping of backs.

“Be careful,” David said. “Herod is beside himself with grief and rage. He staggers from room to room, crying out for Mariamme as if she lives.”

Lydia closed her eyes, the words of Mariamme’s curse in her ears. She nodded once.
Let
him
go
mad, then. Let him drown in his madness.

And then they were off, running up the stairs to the side entrance. Outside in the darkness, a figure shifted from the palace wall.

“Riva!” Lydia’s heart lurched. They were so close.

But Riva’s pale face was tear-streaked and she held out a package to Lydia. “Her jewels.” She swiped at her tears. “She would have wanted you to have them.”

Lydia took the package from the girl’s outstretched hand, then pulled her into an embrace. “Get free of this place, Riva. Find yourself in the One God. He will love you like no other.”

And then Simon tugged her toward the darkness, and they were vaulting to the wagon bed as it rolled away.

They rounded the corner of the palace, kept close to the wall as they crossed the front, where the wide square of paving stones marked the beginning of the royal fortress. Past the massive arch, the Temple behind them. The stars were blotted out tonight, masked by heavy clouds that threatened rain.

The horses’ hooves echoed off the paving stones and the walls of the palace, a rapid click that beat in time with Lydia’s pulse.

And then it was more than the clouds that held a threat. The very air around them seemed to grow thick with menace.

A shout from the palace roof drew their eyes upward. There at the lip of the roof, a dark blot against the gray-black sky.

Salome. Arms upraised and yelling.

Their driver slowed, not because of the spectacle on the roof, but because of the swarm of guards that had appeared before and behind, pouring like insects into the paved front court of the palace.

Above Salome, the very clouds seemed to swirl with the blackness of her rage. The words of her ranting fell upon those below like hailstones.

“Lydia, Daughter of Ptolemies. Lydia, Daughter of Maccabees. You are nothing!”

Lydia rose to her feet in the bed of the wagon. Simon pulled at her hand, but she slipped from his grasp.

“Goddess, hear my cry!” Salome raised her voice to the wind. “Al-Uzzá, goddess of my people, come to my aid. Destroy this one who would rip power from your favored ones!”

A darkness that could not be seen with the eye but only felt with the spirit pressed upon Lydia, a presence of the darkness that had forever set itself up against the people of God.

She raised her eyes to Salome’s wrath, to the powers of the air she implored. “Drive on, Reuben.”

She felt the driver look back at her in question, but she did not break the connection with Salome, only held up her hands to the guards who approached. Held them outstretched, like Moses did as the people fought the Amalekites. She had forgotten that story until this moment, but the words of Samuel were as fresh as if he told it yesterday. The Amalekites, whose descendant now stood upon the palace roof and tried once more to wage war against the plan of God.

Lydia kept her arms raised, her feet spread wide for balance, as they passed through the clot of guards untouched, and Salome shrieked futile curses down upon their heads.

Lydia had been raised in a Greek palace in the capital of Egypt. She had seen royalty in the power circles of Rome and been claimed as family in Jerusalem, City of God. But not until this moment did she truly understand herself, truly see who she was meant to be. Her childhood fancies of a royal birth had become truth, but the truth of her birth did not define her. Did not give her any more worth than she’d already possessed as a child of God.

Greek or Egyptian, Roman or Jew—one day they would all bow before the One God. All peoples, nations, and men of every language, as the prophet Daniel had said. His dominion was an everlasting dominion that would not pass away. His kingdom was a kingdom that would never be destroyed.

And as part of that kingdom, Lydia could not be shaken.

Salome’s screaming curses ceased. The guards closed ranks behind them and they rolled on, through the streets toward the Valley Gate. Lydia lowered herself to sit beside Simon, who wrapped a tight arm around her waist.

But Salome would not be defeated. She was there suddenly, flying out of the darkness astride an ebony stallion, like some sort of avenging demon, black hair streaming backward from white eyes and bared teeth.

The horse galloped alongside the wagon on Lydia’s side.

Simon stood, one foot braced against the wagon bed.

Salome reached for Lydia, grabbed at her robes, and yanked.

A yell from Simon and the wagon rumbled to a stop, but not before horse and ground and Salome blurred into one.

Lydia fell to the hard-packed dirt, tangled in the clawing arms of the woman who had sworn to see her dead.

Salome’s face appeared above hers, a wicked grin creasing the taut skin. “Worthless servant. Did you think—?”

And then she was gone, jerked backward by Simon’s strong arms.

Lydia struggled to her feet, every joint bruised.

Salome writhed in Simon’s grasp and spit at Lydia. “You cannot get away. Not from me.”

Lydia tilted her head to study the woman. A strange peace enveloped her. “Let her go, Simon.”

Simon held her tighter. “She is fueled by the fires of Hades.”

“Let her go.” She did not take her gaze from Salome, though she felt Simon’s hesitation and then his trust.

He dropped his arms and took a step backward.

Salome hurtled toward her, then straightened as though slapped.

Lydia walked a slow circle around the woman. The futility of her dark magic hung like a visible shroud, and Lydia could see its vain efforts stretching back into the past and even into the future somehow.

“What have you done to me?” Salome struggled as though still in Simon’s grip, though he had stepped away from them both. “What magic do you use against me, servant?”

“No magic, Salome. It is not I who holds your life in His hand.” She stopped her circling to stand and speak before the king’s sister. “You would destroy the hopes of our Messiah, but I have been given a role as well. And no opinion of man, neither condemnation nor praise, bears any consequence in the face of this great destiny. It is a destiny offered to every man and every woman who would
take it up, who would live a life of courage and risk because our future is secure in the hands of the One God.”

Yes, risk. Like the scrolls, Lydia had kept her heart buried for ten years. And like the scrolls, her heart would never change the world as long as she kept it hidden.

Still trapped in unseen bonds, Salome’s expression passed from hatred to fury to something else—something almost pitiful in its despair. Her face lowered and her chest heaved.

“Kill me, then, servant girl. You would strip my power and leave me at your mercy. Why stop there?” The words were raw and hopeless, almost tearful. “Strike me down and end my humiliation.”

“It is not for me to name the time and the season of your judgment, Salome.” Lydia crossed the space between them. Simon helped her back into the wagon, and once seated, she looked down on the woman, small and defeated and cowering in the dirt. “But know this. The One God sees you, as He sees us all. And you will never win.”

Salome’s eyes were dead in their blackness, her arms limp at her sides, her tirades silenced at last.

The goodness of the One God to give her this moment to see His victory swept over Lydia and brought healing tears as the wagon rolled to the Valley Gate, leaving Salome in the darkness behind.

The gate opened with a salute to Simon from its keeper, and Lydia fell into Simon’s arms at last, exhausted. She bent her head to his and set her eyes eastward.

A long journey awaited, a journey certain to come with hardships.

But somewhere in Persia, a group of men awaited their arrival, living in faith that someone would come bearing the scrolls of promise, sealed until the time of the end.

The
Chakkiym
. Strange Aramaic word. Here in Judea and around the world, it was spoken only in secret, passed down from father to son.

But in Persia . . .

In Persia, they would find this proud and ancient group thriving.

The Chakkiym.

Wise
men.

Watching the horizon from the east, for a sign that the Messiah was come at last.

The Story Behind the Story . . . and Beyond

T
hank you for reading
The Queen’s Handmaid
. I hope you enjoyed Lydia’s tale. The story you have just finished has been my most ambitious to date, both in scope and in the amount of historical fact wedged between the lines of fiction.

The idea for this book really began with my lifelong curiosity about the magi who came to Bethlehem at the birth of Jesus. Where did they come from? How did they know they sought a king? These are questions I still plan to address in another book, but I found myself wanting to take a step backward in time from that pivotal moment in history, to understand the religious and political climate in which it took place. When I happened upon the little-known fact that Herod the Great was a close friend of Marc Antony’s, and that he made an enemy of Cleopatra by refusing her manipulative advances, I had an episode for fiction that was too good to pass up.

The meeting of Cleopatra and Herod the Great, both incredibly powerful world leaders, became a natural opening for the story. I traveled the length of their relationship, watched
empire-shaking events take place over the course of a decade, and arrived at an ending point for my story with the death of Herod’s wife. Now I needed a pair of eyes through which to see these events. Casting about, it soon became clear that most of the major players in this drama were corrupt or dead by the end of it, so it became necessary to invent a character as my “witness.” I wanted to begin in Egypt, to meet the future Caesar Augustus in Rome, and to travel to Judea to focus on Herod, and thus Lydia was born as a servant in the palace of Alexandria, Egypt. I decided to make Lydia an orphan because I wanted to examine some issues of identity. What is it that makes us worthwhile and valued? Is it our parentage? Our own efforts at pleasing others and making ourselves needed? Our achievements? Or is it something else, a firmer foundation on which we can truly build a life?