Part 15

“But, my dear daughter, don’t you know that one never turns his back upon the Tetrarch?” Antipas shouted, as he leaned out across the table, his black eyes bulging as though they might leap from the sockets.

The girl’s only response was to draw in her hands slightly and then thrust them outward again in the pantomime of unveiling herself anew as, in an ecstasy of voluptuous simulations, she rotated her slim hips to the mounting frenzy of the music.

“Wonderful! Wonderful!” Antipas clapped his fat hands together. “Marvelous, my dear child! But must you continue to give your back to the Tetrarch? Will you continue thus to tease us?”

Still Salome made no reply to her stepfather. But slowly, as Antipas clutched the table edge to pull to his feet, the girl, without breaking the rhythm of her seductive undulations, began slowly to turn herself about, her arms still outthrust from her sides. The Tetrarch, seeing it, let go his prop and sank heavily to the couch; once more his screamed approval signaled the guests to new applause, as every eye in eager anticipation followed the gracefully suggestive motions of their royal host’s stepdaughter.

But hardly had the girl done a quarter turn toward the diners when suddenly she drew the gossamer scarves protectively to herself, and, whirling the remainder of the turn to face them, paused in her dancing. Then with head tossed back and laughing, she scampered across the spotlighted circle almost to the Tetrarch’s table. A pace from it she stopped, turned her head, and with a nod signaled the musicians. As they resumed the dancing rhythm, she began again her voluptuous gyrations.

Claudia was close enough now to Salome to see that the girl’s half-closed eyes, peering through slits beneath the darkly shadowed lids, were glancing from the Tetrarch to her mother beside him. Salome, she was suddenly convinced, was performing for Antipas not out of her own volition but through Herodias’ devising. And what, Claudia wondered again, could the crafty Tetrarchess be planning to accomplish through this brazen flaunting of her daughter’s physical charms.

But the Procurator’s wife had only a moment for conjecture; Salome suddenly ceased her rhythmical writhings and stepped forward to lean above the Tetrarch’s still burdened table. Teasingly, and before the musicians were aware of her changed routine, she fumbled with the veils still held pressed against her, and as Antipas, in a new frenzy of excitement, sought to rise from his couch, she thrust her hands apart and then, with a high squeal of laughter, crossed them again in front of her. In the brief moment that her youthful but fully matured bosom had been completely exposed to them, the Tetrarch had lunged out to clutch her, but he had shattered his wine goblet instead and the girl, screaming with laughter, had darted backward into the illuminated circle to evade him.

As a servant came running up to mop the spilled wine and remove the broken glass, Antipas settled back on his couch. “Aha! The clever little vixen was too quick for me,” he said, turning to face his wife. “But I’ll....” He said no more. Herodias, Claudia saw, was unsmiling, grim. But evidently she hadn’t meant for Antipas to see her in such a mood, for quickly she affected a cloaking smile. “By the gods,” she said to her husband, “the child is clever, isn’t she?”

Salome was now in the center of the bright light. The music had died away as the leader awaited his new instructions. The girl stood quietly facing the Tetrarch and his guests, the colored veils clutched in her crossed hands as though she were trying to cover herself in a chilling breeze. Then she turned her head and lifted one veil-holding hand to signal resumption of the dance music; the musicians swung quickly into a fast rhythm that sent Salome dipping and prancing around the lighted circle. As she came within inches of the Tetrarch’s table, Antipas once more lunged toward her, but she had anticipated his attempt to catch her and had darted out of reach. Laughing, she danced to the center of the lighted spot; soon she was whirling around on the balls of her bare feet, and as the tempo of the drums and the strings and the brasses increased and the volume swelled, she circled as she pirouetted. Opposite the Centurion Cornelius she released one of the veils and it sailed across the table to be caught by the diner at his right.

“Another!” shouted Antipas as she whirled past his couch but safely beyond his reach. “Another! Let another one fly!”

She was wheeling before the diners at her mother’s left when she loosed a second veil; a man grabbed for it and thrust it beneath his pillow. When she had spun around to the other side of the circle she held out her arm and a yellow one sailed above the table. A man and a woman grabbed for the floating gossamer; he caught it but laughingly surrendered it to her.

“More! More!” screamed the Tetrarch, and around the square of the tables others joined in chorus. And when the girl let two of the shimmering scarves sail away together, they screamed again. “More! More! Let them fly!”

Salome, her head back, laughing, began now to tease the Tetrarch and his guests. Whirling around the rim of the patch of light, she would sweep one hand with its veils outward with a flourish and then, without releasing them, fold the arm back across the other one, which all the while she had kept pressed close to her pirouetting white body.

“She’s an actress, the little coquette!” Cornelius observed. “She knows how to build up suspense. She understands how to please Antipas, too; she’s got a good sense of the dramatic.”

“Yes, and in another moment or so, unless I’m entirely wrong about her, her dramatics will have Antipas—and maybe you, too—groveling.” But quickly her expression changed to one of perplexity. “Still I wonder, Cornelius, what Herodias is scheming. Surely she’s getting no pleasure out of seeing her daughter make a spectacle of herself in public. There must be something behind it; yet I can’t imagine what. What on earth could she want so badly that she would go to such great...?”

But her question remained unfinished, for the girl had pranced, still pirouetting, into the center of the bright spot. She paused in her turning and with both hands clutching the remaining veils modestly across her chest, signaled with a motion of her head to the leader of the musicians. Immediately the volume of the music began to increase and the tempo to speed, and Salome whirled faster and faster in time with the music’s crescendo. As she spun on the balls of her bare feet, the veils that had been hanging to her knees streamed out in a kaleidoscope of whirling color. The flutes more insistently joined their whining pleas to the deeper invitations of the harps and the dulcimers and the rhythmical throaty demands of the drums; the girl’s black hair, standing out from her head as she whirled, made a dark spinning disk above the circular rainbow of the scarves.

Now Salome lifted one arm above her head, while she held the other protectively before her, so that the dark whirling of her hair had above it as well as beneath it a spinning rainbow of color.

“I think I know what she’ll do next,” Claudia said, leaning to her right to speak to Cornelius above the steadily mounting volume and frenzy of the music.

Antipas, too, must have anticipated it. “The other arm!” he shouted, as he leaned forward, his eyes blazing with lechery. “Raise the other arm, my dear child!”

But Salome did not obey the Tetrarch. Instead, as she came pirouetting nearer him, she lowered the arm she had just raised, and the two whirling circles of color merged into one fast, revolving gossamer flame. Faster the girl spun, and faster, faster the musicians played, and higher swelled their instruments’ invitation to abandoned revelry.

Antipas, who had sat back when the girl failed to heed his demand, reached for his goblet, gulped his wine, and was replacing the slender-stemmed glass when suddenly Salome, whirling hardly two paces from his table, lifted both arms high into the air. The transparent veils twisted upward with them to form above the girl’s swirling black hair a spinning canopy of weaving and shifting bright colors.

Once more the Tetrarch overturned his goblet, and the wine spilled across the table. But when a servant came racing to his aid, Antipas waved him away. The Tetrarch’s amazed eyes had focused upon the dancing girl; he would permit nothing to obstruct, even for an instant, his view of her.

The spinning Salome in the circle of light from the wall lamp was nude from the small gossamer triangle of her loins’ covering to the crown of her head, and in the rapidity of her turning she appeared to be entirely divested of clothing.

Antipas caught at the edge of the table and pushed himself, swaying, to his feet. “Nearer, child, nearer!” he shrieked. “Come closer! Come closer to us! Come....” But his frenzied words were choked in a swirling cloud of silken transparencies, for his stepdaughter had let go all her veils and one had dipped full into the flushed, round face of the Tetrarch of Galilee and Peraea.

As Antipas struggled to free himself of the clinging, vision-obscuring fluff of silk, the guests around the tables grabbed merrily for the descending veils. But by the time the Tetrarch had jerked the scarf away from his face, Salome had already disappeared; she had darted across the spotlighted mosaic floor into the enfolding privacy of the triclinium’s antechamber. Behind her, her audience thundered its applause.

Moments later, before the birthday celebrants had settled completely from the excitement of her dramatic exit, Salome, dressed as she had been when she left to prepare for her dance, returned to the great chamber and took her place beside her mother. Claudia, watching discreetly, saw the Tetrarchess lightly squeeze the girl’s hand and bend over to whisper into her ear.

Antipas sat up and beaming turned to face his stepdaughter. “My child, you have pleased the Tetrarch immensely,” he said, as he rubbed his plump hands together. “I had no idea that you could dance with such grace and charm. Your dancing has far excelled the finest efforts of the women of Arabia; it has added immeasurably to the pleasure of the Tetrarch and his guests.” He reached for his goblet, swallowed the wine, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And now, my dear daughter, you have but to name your reward for thus having entertained so pleasantly the Tetrarch and our friends. Speak out, Salome. What shall it be? A palace of your own beside the sea? A great pleasure yacht with servants in shining livery and galley slaves to row it? Perchance a long visit to Rome to renew your friendships in the capital, with a handsome allowance to cover every gift your fancy may envision? Speak up, now. Let your wish be known, and it shall be granted.”

“Even, Sire, to the half of your tetrarchy?”

Antipas blinked, hesitated a moment, and then his round face brightened. “Yes, if you ask it, even to the half of the tetrarchy, though I should think a marble palace or a yacht....”

“Have no fear, Sire,” Salome interrupted. “I wish not the half of your tetrarchy or any part of it. Nor do I need or desire a marble palace or a pleasure boat, or a trip at this time to Rome.”

“Ah, but I know what will please you,” Antipas spoke up. “A new wardrobe, full of beautiful garments fashioned of the finest silks brought from the Orient or woven on the looms in Phoenicia....”

“No, not gowns or shoes or houses or yachts or journeys to Rome or gold and silver....”

“But come, my dear child, you must be repaid for the pleasure you have given us. I beg of you, name your any desire....”

“And the Tetrarch will grant it?” Salome stood up, facing the ruler of Galilee and Peraea, just beyond her mother. “You swear it, Sire?”

“By the beard of the High Priest, I swear it, Salome. I shall grant whatever you ask of me, even to the half of the tetrarchy.”

“Then, Sire,” she said, smiling demurely, “my request is simple and will rob the Tetrarch’s treasury of not one denarius. It is my wish”—she paused and looked the happily smiling Antipas full in his round face—“that the Tetrarch present to me on a silver platter the head of the Wilderness preacher called John the Baptizer.”

Claudia and Cornelius had been leaning out over their plates, avidly following the conversation of the girl and her stepfather.

“By all the gods!” Claudia whispered, without taking her eyes from the still calmly smiling Salome. “Now I understand. Herodias, by the Bountiful Mother....”

But she said no more, for Antipas was pulling to his feet. “Surely, child, I have not heard you correctly. Surely you would not wish to have the head of a man....”

“But you did hear correctly, Sire. And you have sworn to grant me my wish. I ask only for the head of the Prophet John.”

The Tetrarch, braced against the table’s edge, looked to his right and then left along the tables. The eyes of his guests were fastened on their plates; not one face was raised to help him. Antipas stood, drained of all levity; the impact of the girl’s inhuman request, so simply and heartlessly presented, had sobered him. He turned again to Salome and tried to affect a smile.

“Were you a man, a soldier, perhaps, seeking revenge upon an enemy ... but for a beautiful young woman of such charm and culture, who has danced for us so delightfully”—he shook his head sadly—“such an utterly strange request for a beautiful woman.” He seemed to be thinking aloud, talking more to himself than to the girl. “To want the head of a prophet of Israel, a man held in such esteem by so many of our Jewish subjects, a prophet who may indeed have been sent of Israel’s God....” He broke off, shaking his head as if in deep perplexity.

Claudia, watching Salome now, saw Herodias reach out and gently grasp her daughter’s arm. The girl, still standing, smiled cynically and tossed her head. “Nevertheless, Sire, that is my request. If, however, the Tetrarch wishes to dishonor his oath before this company and refuse me....”

The Tetrarch banged his fist on the table top. “The Tetrarch never dishonors an oath!” he shouted. “He withdraws no promises he makes.” He turned to face the two guardsmen at the door, the soldiers who had brought the Wilderness prophet into the banquet room and had escorted him back to the dungeon. “Guardsmen, you have heard the request of the Princess Salome. Go you now into the dungeon and carry out her request.” He paused. They stood stiffly at attention, awaiting his final command. “Do you understand?”

The men glanced at one another, then faced the Tetrarch. “We understand, Sire,” one said.

“Then go.”

Quickly the two strode out of the chamber; their footsteps echoed as they marched down the hall. Antipas slumped on his couch, then lowered his head between his hands. Salome took her seat. She smiled as she and her mother whispered. The guests kept their places and were silent; the servants, moving about to replenish the wine goblets, walked noiselessly.

“The Tetrarch is making a monstrous mistake,” Cornelius said.

“Because he’s giving in to Herodias?” Claudia inquired.

“Because he’s ordering the prophet’s death.”

“Then you”—a faint smile crossed her face—“are afraid of the Jews’ one god?”

“I could be,” he answered unhesitatingly. “But that’s not my reason. I’m sure it’s....” He stopped. A servant had approached the Tetrarch’s couch.

“The Centurion Longinus?” The Tetrarch raised his bulky frame to a sitting position. “Indeed, bring him to us.”

At the sound of the Tetrarch’s words, Claudia looked up; her eyes followed the retreating servant. Antipas turned to her. “The Centurion Longinus has just arrived at Machaerus,” he said; “I’ve sent for him. Shall we make a place for him between you and Centurion Cornelius perhaps, my dear?” He grinned. “He must be famished from the long journey to this forsaken outpost.”

A moment later the servant escorted the centurion to the Tetrarch’s couch. Antipas greeted him cordially, presented him to the diners, and ordered the servants to set him a place at the table. When after a minute he was settled beside her, Claudia found his hand on the couch and squeezed it hard. “It’s so wonderful to have you here,” she said. “I can hardly wait to hear the news from Rome.”

“I can hardly wait to be with you ... alone,” he said. “It’s been so long, and I had no idea I’d find you here.” He turned to Cornelius at his right. “I’ve got much to tell you, Centurion,” he announced, “and, no doubt, much to hear from you too.”

“But what on earth are you doing at Machaerus, Longinus? Where have you been before this?”

“Tiberias,” he answered, “I came there after landing at Caesarea. I had orders from Sejanus to convey to the Tetrarch. When I reached Tiberias and found that he and his guests had departed for Machaerus, I set out to follow. It was urgent that I see the Tetrarch as quickly as possible; I didn’t dare await his return to his palace.”

Antipas had overheard. “We are happy that you came, Centurion, but what mission could you have that would be so urgent?” He smiled, and his manner was most agreeable. “A new style of glassware, perhaps, that you wish to sell to the Tetrarch?”

“No, Sire, nothing to sell you ... now, at any rate. It’s a more important mission. I’m coming to you from the Prefect Sejanus who is sending you instructions in the name of the Emperor, for whom he is acting in this case and after conferring with Tiberius at Capri. I assure you it is important and urgent, and I desire an audience with you at the first moment you may be available, Sire, in order to transmit to you the instructions from Rome.”

“Indeed, Centurion”—the Tetrarch’s flippant manner had disappeared; his countenance, at the centurion’s mention of Sejanus and the Emperor, was suddenly grave—“if it is that urgent, we can leave the dining chamber at once. But that would cause a lot of talk, I suppose. Must you confer with me in secret, Centurion? These are all dear friends, my wife, the Procurator’s wife, Centurion Cornelius. Is it necessary that the information you bring me from Rome be kept from them?”

“Indeed, no, Sire. In fact, they would know soon anyway, as quickly as you acted. And the Prefect desires that you act immediately.” He paused. Antipas nodded. “In fact, Sire, it is fortunate that you are here at Machaerus; your orders can be put into effect within minutes after they have been issued. The Prefect’s instructions to you have to do with that strange fellow we encountered along the Jordan as we were going to Tiberias, the one you had arrested and brought here to be imprisoned, you remember, the Wilderness prophet called John the Baptizer.”

“John the Baptizer!” The Tetrarch’s face had paled. Herodias, who had been listening, leaned forward; her countenance was a mask. “But what of John,” the Tetrarch began, “what...?” He paused, licked his dry lips, and swallowed.

“Sire, it’s nothing to be unduly concerned about,” Longinus replied. “It’s only a policy matter. You know that Sejanus and Tiberius are always stressing the importance of keeping the Jews happy, at least to the extent that they won’t attempt to revolt. And since John is so popular among them, the Prefect believes that your release of the prophet will be pleasing to the Jews and will, to that extent, strengthen Rome’s rule ... and the Tetrarch’s. There’s no point in needlessly offending them, you see. That’s why he sent me to you with the suggestion, Sire, that you release John at once. He has prepared notices, to be signed by you, for posting in Tiberias, Jerusalem, Caesarea....”

The Tetrarch said nothing but buried his face in his hands. Herodias, erect and unmoving, stared straight ahead.

“But, Sire....”

Longinus said no more, for Claudia had suddenly grasped his arm. He turned and stared toward the doorway through which, a moment before the centurion’s arrival, the two palace guardsmen had disappeared. Now the two were returning. They advanced straight toward the Tetrarch. One man was carrying, chest high and at arms’ length, a large silver tray of the type used by servants at Machaerus for serving food. On the tray was a rounded, gory mass.

“But that can’t be for me, surely,” Longinus whispered to her. “It looks like raw meat, bloody.... Great Jove!” The man bearing the tray had come close enough for them to see his ghastly offering. “By all the great and little gods!” He twisted to face the girl, his expression suddenly aghast. His voice, when at last he spoke, was hoarse and unbelieving. “The Wilderness prophet?”

She nodded. “Yes, the Tetrarch had him beheaded ... just a moment ago, perhaps even after you arrived here.” She turned her head to look away from the guardsman’s horrifying burden.

But Longinus saw. The prophet’s head, with blood dripping from the stump of the severed neck, lay on one ear in the tangled, gore-smeared mat of his long, black hair. His beard, too, was blood-streaked, and his face and forehead were smeared; blood had run down into the corners of his eyes. Wide-open and set in staring rigidity, the eyes seemed to be trying to communicate with him.

“Sire,” the guardsmen said, as he reached the table and held out the profaned tray, “the Tetrarch’s orders have been carried out. The head of the desert preacher....”

“No! No!” screamed Antipas, as he held up his right hand before his eyes and pointed with the other toward his wife and her daughter. “Not here! It’s ... it’s theirs! Put it there!”

The guardsman set the tray down in front of Salome, who glanced at it idly and then lowered her head. Herodias stared unabashed at the pitiful profanation before them, and then after a moment she, too, looked away.

Now the Tetrarch lowered his shielding hand and calmly turned to his left to face Herodias and his stepdaughter. His demeanor, Longinus saw, was suddenly changed. When he spoke his voice was calm, modulated. “The Tetrarch of Galilee and Peraea does not dishonor a promise made,” he said. “My daughter, you have the reward you sought. Now what will you do with it?”

The girl turned to stare an instant at her questioner. Then she glanced again toward the head on the tray. Shock, nausea, sudden fear, horror curdled her countenance, and she threw up a protecting hand to shut out the fearful sight. “Give it to Mother!” she cried out, her voice shrill, and tense. Jumping to her feet, she fled from the great chamber.

“Take it away!” Herodias screamed to a servant at her elbow. “Dispose of it ... quickly!” Without a word to her husband, she reached for her wine goblet and drank; then she drew up her feet, smoothed the skirt of her glistening stola, and settled herself comfortably on her elbow.

Equally calm, Antipas leaned over to speak to Longinus. “I regret, Centurion, that you didn’t reach Machaerus a few minutes earlier. But....” He gestured with resignation, then sat back on his couch. He was reaching for his wine glass when a palace servant approached, bowing. The Tetrarch nodded to him. “Yes?”

“Sire, a delegation has just arrived; the men declare they were sent by King Aretas. They maintain their mission is most urgent and they petition—indeed, Sire, they demand—that the Tetrarch give them audience this evening.”

“From King Aretas?” A heavy scowl darkened the Tetrarch’s full, round face. “Most urgent, they say?” He was thoughtfully silent a moment. Then he turned, glaring, to the obeisant servant. “Then bring them to us.”

“But, Sire”—the bowing man was rubbing his hands together nervously, palpably fearful—“they suggested that perhaps the Tetrarch would wish to receive them privately in his council chamber....”

“No! Who are they to tell the Tetrarch where he must receive them! Bring them to us, at once!”

“Yes, Sire. Yes, immediately.” The timorous fellow was backing away, bowing, as he rubbed his knuckles in his palm.