Part 13

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.