Chapter 17

As Herodias had predicted, the dinner-party was proving to be as dull as it was lavish and expensive. The Romans, beginning too early with the birthday celebration by drinking recklessly since mid-afternoon, were apathetic as they clumsily slumped down on to their couches round the banquet tables. The magician from Caesarea was half drunk and impudently vulgar. The acrobats worked furiously for their feeble applause. As for the harpists, they had not yet appeared. Upon their arrival, at noon, Salome had taken them in hand, after promising her stepfather that she—and the musicians—would have an interesting surprise for him.

There was a deplorable lull in the programme as they waited for the entertainment to proceed. Senator Cotta yawned prodigiously and inquired, ‘What’s next, Your Highness?’ Tiro suggested, ‘Why doesn’t somebody make a speech?’ Mark Varus drawled, ‘How about that prophet you’ve had penned up, Antipas?’

‘That’s not a bad idea,’ approved Fadilla. ‘Bring him in! Let him talk!’

Antipas briefly demurred. He had been drinking more than was his custom, and was ready to agree with almost any proposal, but this suggestion, he felt, needed to be deliberated. Turning toward Fadilla, who sat some little distance away, he said, ‘There is an ancient legend among our people, Tullius, about a prisoner—one Samson—who was brought up from his dungeon to amuse a party of his captors; and he pulled the house down over their heads.’

‘The Tetrarch is superstitious,’ remarked Aurelia Varus.

Antipas frowned, beckoned to a uniformed guard who stood behind him, and muttered an order. Then, raising his voice as the guard left the room, he announced, ‘We have a prisoner in our jail, a demented fellow who thinks he is a prophet. We are having him brought in to make a few remarks. We have no notion what he is likely to say; but let us listen to him with a show of respect—or he may be unwilling to talk, at all.’

The room grew suddenly quiet as the gaunt, unkempt prisoner was led in, blinking against the blinding light of the huge stone lamps that lined the walls. Two tall guards brought him to a stand before the Tetrarch’s table.

‘Prophet John,’ said Antipas, ‘a desire has been expressed to hear you speak. You may choose your own subject. It may interest you to know that this is our birthday. Should you wish to take that event as your text, we will be gratified. Perhaps, if we like your speech, we may set you free.’

There was a tense hush as they waited for the shaggy hermit to begin. When he spoke, his deep voice betrayed no agitation or embarrassment, nor was there any evidence that he resented his role as an object of ridicule.

‘Sire,’ he began, ‘on Your Majesty’s birthday it is fitting to review Your Majesty’s years and deeds. Doubtless this might be accomplished by any of the great and gifted ones in this presence more eloquently than by a humble captive; but perhaps no more truthfully.