Agrippa's Daughter (29 page)

Seeing her, watching her, so tall and calmly gracious, struck again for the thousandth time by her strange, breath-taking beauty, Shimeon made his way toward her. In all the chaos of the growing, articulating, swirling party, he had to touch her and confirm her reality.

Also moving toward Berenice, Joseph Benmattathias was intercepted by the Procurator Florus, who said that he heard a great deal about him, “Fine expectations from so young a man,” Florus nodded. “They tell me you intend to write a history.”

“When I find time. Not for a good many years, I expect.”

“Well, we don’t want it to be a one-sided thing, do we? Rome thinks well of those who respect Rome. Come to me when the time is at hand. I can be of help to you.”

“I will remember that,” Joseph said.

“Odd though—”

“Yes?”

“One doesn’t expect history from a Jew. From a Greek, yes—and a Roman. But a Jew.”

“What does one expect from a Jew?”

“Business, you know. You are a nation of merchants. The hand out all the time, you know. That’s why you are all so improbably rich. Go anywhere—anywhere in the world, and you find your rich Jew.”

“We are merchants,” Joseph nodded. “I can’t deny that. Your emperors wear the purple because Jews crush the shell and extract the dye, and because Jewish ships bring the dye to Thrace to dye the cotton there, and other Jews buy the cotton cloth in Egypt. By virtue of the same, your silk tunic exists because Jewish caravans trade between here and Cathay, and the beautiful bronze clasp you wear, with the hawk emblazoned on it, exists because a Jewish trading station and synagogue has flourished in Cornwall for a hundred years before ever a Roman set foot in Britain, and because Jewish supercargoes directed Phoenician shipping into the tin trade before certain other peoples ever learned that bronze was an alloy of copper and tin. We create wealth, my dear procurator; we don’t steal it.”

Florus reddened, sought for some clever rejoinder, and then simply said, “Meaning what precisely?”

“No meanings are really precise,” Joseph replied, shrugging and turning away. One of the Sanhedrin, who had overheard, remarked that it did not help anything at this moment to make worse enemies of men like Florus, and Joseph replied that anyone in Rome with an ounce of sophistication detested Florus, who was nobody.

“But nobody can do damage, and we are a long way from Rome,” the member of the Sanhedrin pointed out.

The object of their discussion was getting drunk and being mollified by the charms of a number of Jewish ladies, who made a great deal of him. All things noted, he remained the ranking Roman in Judea. The fact that he was a knight, a member of the merchant class and no more, meant little to Jerusalem society, since to the Jews the patterns of Roman quality and nobility were incomprehensible—just as the Jewish bloodlines, traced so matter-of-factly for twelve hundred years into the past, were meaningless to the Romans. Ventix, the centurion who was related to the emperor’s family, commented on the procurator’s behavior, but Berenice would venture no opinions. “He is my guest. I desire him to be happy.” “And myself?” Ventix demanded. He reached out to touch her breast, and as she evaded him, she could not control the flash of anger that crossed her face. Neither could the young man fail to notice it. His own rage and frustration churned in his stomach. The popular bon mot of Rome held that the Jews were unique in that you had to hate the men as much as you loved the women. He was ready to accept what they said about Jewish women, but there was only one woman he had eyes for, and she turned her back on him simply and deliberately.

In the course of the evening, a tall, lean man dressed in pale blue—and Casper Ventix realized only later that this was most likely Menahem Hacohen, the infamous leader of the dreaded Sicarii—stopped by the young centurion and said, “I saw you with the Queen Berenice.”

“Did you? And just how does it concern you?” The centurion was a little drunk by now.

“I am concerned as a Jew is concerned.”

“And how is that?”

“We treasure her. She is a saint on earth. Do you know what that means, Roman?”

The centurion looked into a pair of icy-cold blue eyes, and there was nothing there to see but death and hate. He shook his head.

“Then find out, Roman,” the man in blue said softly.

There was little that Berenice missed. She had the ability to hear and digest two conversations at once. She picked out bits and pieces, sorted them, filed them; yet continued to be a charming and gracious hostess. Among other things, she noticed Menahem’s confrontation of the Roman. Guests were leaving, and she bid them farewell—but Shimeon should have been at her side. His brow furrowed, he was talking to Caleb Barhoreb, a small man with a clubfoot, perhaps the most articulate and powerful voice in the Great Sanhedrin, a great nephew of the Ba’as Hacohen, whom she had met fifteen years ago during the last week of his life. Intense, brilliant, dynamic in his use of power, Caleb Barhoreb was of both the bloodline nobility and the merchant aristocracy, a first cousin of Phineas Hacohen, who was now head of the House of Hakedron, and a dedicated follower of the teachings of Hillel the Good.

Berenice caught Shimeon’s eye. He nodded, and then he joined her. They stood together by their door then, bowing, saying the polite and necessary things as the guests left—until in a moment of respite, Shimeon managed to say, “I hope you are not too tired, my dear.”

“I’m never too tired when a reception goes well—only when it goes badly.”

They bid farewell to the high priest and his two followers, to Niger, the strange war chief of the nomad Jews in the land of Gilead and in the trackless desert to the east of Gilead, and to Habin Judaicus, a leader of the Jewish community in Rome. Another interval:

“Florus demands a meeting tonight.”

“With whom?”

“Caleb Barhoreb,” said Shimeon, “myself—you.”

“He’s an animal. He’s drunk anyway. Tell him we’re tired.”

“He’s not drunk. I told him we were tired. The little swine said that the walls of Rome would crumble if every Roman citizen who was tired forsook his duties.”

Again they paused for farewells. The crowd was definitely thinning out now.

“We are not Roman citizens,” Berenice said wearily.

“He is. We are his Jews—remember, my love?”

“No, I don’t remember, and I am sick to death of this city, Shimeon. Yes, of this High Place, with its unending intrigue and crosscurrents and undercurrents—and—no, no, we are not his Jews, not you and me. We are Galileans, and if we must belly crawl to Rome, let us be someone else’s Jews, not his. I want to go home, Shimeon.”

“In good time, when the session of the Sanhedrin is over. Meanwhile, there is nothing I can do about this. His requests cannot be set aside. We will meet with him.”

“But why me?” Berenice asked.

“I don’t know, but like most Romans, I am sure that he is somewhat confused as to your status. Are you queen of Chalcis or queen of Galilee or queen of Israel or queen of Shimeon or what?”

“Only of Shimeon,” she smiled.

“Then he’s probably after money, and you’re still the richest woman in Israel.”

Shimeon spoke in jest, but he turned out to be bleakly correct.

The guard of four legionaries who had accompanied Gessius Florus were squatting on the steps of the palace and dozing when Berenice ushered out her last guest; and the legend that the legionary dies who dozes on guard duty went with him. One of the legionaries still awake cocked a leg and passed air. His hard, crude fart awakened the others, who made some conversation in their bad Latin, which could not run three words without some reference to male or female sex organ.

Berenice turned back to the house and joined the men in Shimeon’s workroom, a pleasant room where he conducted business, saw patients, or did his writing when they were in Jerusalem. Only now it was fewer patients and more of everything else.

Darkness had fallen by now, and the room was lit by half a dozen lamps and full of what was to Berenice the warm and familiar smell of olive oil. Gessius Florus sprawled on a couch. He had kicked off his sandals and made himself comfortable, one foot drawn up on the couch so that he could pick at his toes. Caleb Barhoreb stood leaning against Shimeon’s worktable, and Shimeon himself sat stiffly on a small bench. Barhoreb came erect and Shimeon rose as Berenice entered, but Florus did not move, only looking at her fully and frankly, like a slave buyer examining the merchandise before him. Shimeon drew an armchair out for Berenice, and she seated herself and said without more ado,

“I tell you, Procurator, that I have had a very full day, and if you think that a reception for half a thousand people is a game played for pleasure, why try it. Myself, I am exhausted—and if whatever you have in mind will take time, I must excuse myself.”

“No time at all,” Florus replied, smiling without parting his lips. He got to his feet, went to the table, where a sand glass stood, and turned it over so that a thin stream of sand began to run. “One glass—fair enough?”

“We’re waiting, Procurator,” Shimeon said.

Back on the couch, Florus picked at his toes and said, “I can’t afford to give receptions like this. It would bankrupt me. I can’t even afford to carry out the common and necessary duties of an administrator. It’s a pittance that’s paid to a procurator. The fact is that I am in debt up to my ears. I try to be understanding, patient, and just. Above all, just—and that’s not terribly easy with Jews. But everything bogs down under my obligations. I should not be pressed to think about money, morning, noon, and night—and my debts. It’s a constant state of temper, and that makes for poor judgment. You don’t want that. Do you know that I had to borrow to come here from Caesarea?”

“How much money do you want, Procurator?” Caleb Barhoreb asked quietly, evenly, his voice under severe control.

“Ten talents,” Florus said flatly, staring at his toes.

Both Caleb and Shimeon looked at each other and then bleakly at Berenice.

“We gave you a talent four months ago,” Caleb said. “Three weeks ago we sent you ten thousand silver shekels. Even a cow cannot be milked four times a day.”

“Jews are not cows,” Florus replied, spreading each toe, one after another, staring at the flesh between them.

“I think,” said Shimeon, “that the procurator is amusing himself at our expense.”

“Am I?” Florus did not look up.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am not amused. Why are you amused, Nashi?”

Shimeon shrugged. “Because that is an impossibly large sum of money. It’s the ransom of an emperor. It would take months to raise a sum that size.”

“Months?” Now Florus looked up. “I was thinking of tomorrow. I suppose I could wait another day.”

“And where do we find this money?” Caleb asked. “You say tomorrow. Where do we find the money by tomorrow?”

“I am only a Roman,” Florus said. “You are Jews. It is your business to find money. The queen here is the richest woman in the world.”

“What nonsense!” Berenice said. “Do you think that I could lay hands on ten talents in two days? If you do, Procurator, you know less about the ways of the world than I would have expected.”

“Are you pleading poverty?”

“No, Procurator—not at all.” Berenice had no intentions of diminishing herself in his eyes. He worshiped wealth; then let him be impressed with her wealth. “I can raise ten talents. It would take a little time, and it would mean selling a number of things that I own. I do not keep chests of coins in anticipation of such moments as this. In fact, I could raise ten and another ten and another ten to boot—and I would not be poor, Procurator, far from it.”

Florus had let go of his toes now. He was staring at Berenice, his expression mingled with greed and awe.

“But I have no intention to do so, Procurator. None. I owe you no money. I am the titular dowager queen of Chalcis, and I am responsible only to the Emperor at Rome. I am not impressed with you and your demands—”

“Berenice!” Shimeon cried.

“—no, no, Shimeon. Let me finish.”

Gessius Florus was on his feet now. Barefooted, short, and round as a dumpling, his hair thrusting up in all directions, his face glowing with deepening color, he puffed out his lips and snapped,

“Yes, Nashi—let her finish! I would not miss a word she has to say!” „

Berenice also rose, towering over the procurator, and said quietly, “I repeat that I am not impressed. You have no power over me, Procurator, and may all your gods help you if you or any of your people lay a finger on me or mine. I am not a Judean, and this is not my city, and I am no stranger in Rome. Not one shekel would I give you—not if I were rich as Croesus, with all the wealth of Lydia in my coffers. Let me add this—”

“Enough!” Shimeon cried, but Caleb gripped his arm.

“—others have made a religion out of hating Jews and looting them. They are dead and forgotten. We are still here, Procurator.” With that, she swept from the room, leaving the three men silent behind her.

Shimeon and Caleb remained silent, waiting. Florus breathed deeply until he had himself under control, and then he said, “I want the ten talents tomorrow. Before I leave Jerusalem. Take them out of the temple treasury.”

“That’s impossible, Procurator,” Caleb said. “You know that. I speak in your own interests. The Temple’s treasury is sacred—”

“Except to the priests, who dip into it like a bottomless well.”

“We won’t argue that. But this is not a happy or easy city. Such an action could explode it.”

“My legionaries will handle any explosion your Jews can make.”

“Procurator,” Shimeon said, “would it hurt to give us a little more time? In the past, you have made demands and we have met them. We are not unreasonable.”

“Tomorrow,” Florus said.

Berenice was awake, sitting on her bed meekly, her long legs drawn under her, hardly daring to look at Shimeon while she asked him what had come of it. He shrugged and said that nothing had come of it, except that Florus wanted his money out of the temple treasury.

“I made a fine display of myself,” Berenice said.

“No. It changed nothing.”