Chapter 8

The Timotheus family and their rich possessions had been ruthlessly disposed of. Timotheus himself had been put to death; his uncommonly beautiful wife had committed suicide; their two elder sons, Leander and Philetus, school-mates of Lysias, had been taken to serve as scribes and accountants in the office of the Prefect of Achaea. A younger son, Demetrius, who had already won some local renown as an athlete, was carried off to Rome in chains, too savagely rebellious to be of much use to anybody looking for a servant. Lysias had often wondered what became of the handsome, reckless Demetrius—beaten to death, perhaps, for insubordination.

The Roman looters hadn’t known what to do with the books. There was an enormous quantity of these scrolls, and not a man among the invaders knew enough about literature to identify the extremely valuable writings and give them special care. The books had been stored in a damp cellar and much of the writing on the rotted papyrus was presently indecipherable; but, regardless of their physical condition, many of these scrolls were historic treasures. Think of it!—to own a book written by Aristotle! In his own handwriting!

Of course, reflected Lysias, you couldn’t expect Antipas to have much reverence for the old scrolls. Antipas was a Roman, and Rome had no veneration for the past. Let the dreamy Greeks attend to the rotted scrolls—and the tombs and the epitaphs.

The old Sadducee’s note was answered forthwith, Lysias obsequiously thanking the eminent David Ben-Zadok for the great kindness tendered his master, the Tetrarch. And he would be glad to see the young person about the scrolls at her early convenience.

Lysias had spoken the truth. He was glad at the prospect of having some more attractive company than the kitchen afforded. The Tetrarch’s palace could be a very lonely institution when the family was abroad. By experience the steward had learned that the less he mingled with the servants the better account he could give of his stewardship upon his lord’s return. On occasions he had shown himself friendly with the gardeners and vine-growers, only to encourage their laziness and disobedience. As for the kitchen crew, he had discovered that any playfulness in that department would certainly be paid off in impudence and disrespect.

The new employee would rate a higher classification on account of her learning. The servants themselves would understand that without being told. Lysias would invite this girl to have her meals with him. He hoped she would be comely, though that was almost too much to expect if she was—as old David said—well versed in the classics. Pretty girls didn’t know anything. Indeed, the really beautiful ones were forthright fools—all but Salome, of course. Salome was a deep one. Lysias worshipped her. And he was afraid of her, too. Once, when Salome had had too much wine, she had encouraged Lysias to kiss her. She had managed the kiss and it had left Lysias dizzy and weak in the knees. Then she had savagely slapped him on the mouth with the back of her hand. The huge jewels in her rings had bloodied his lips. Salome had laughed. She enjoyed rough play. She wasn’t punishing him for offending her. Quite to the contrary, she had been delighted with his caresses. But the sight of pain and the scent of warm blood gave her a queer little thrill, she said, while repairing his wounds.

Sometimes the Tetrarch too was confined to his rooms for a few days while the cuts on his face were healing. On these occasions, only old Glaucus, the ex-butler, was permitted to minister to His Highness. Lysias surmised that Glaucus was the repository for many a secret, his suspicion being based mostly on the animal-like ferocity of Herodias’ hatred for him.

Also, there was a tell-tale quality to the old fellow’s impudence. Herodias couldn’t be blamed for despising him. Shamelessly trading on the stranglehold he apparently had on the Tetrarch, Glaucus could be found on warm autumn afternoons in the most comfortable chair in the sunniest corner of the patio, with a tankard of wine at his elbow and a fat, elderly terrier asleep at his feet—as if he had every right to all the luxuries that the establishment afforded. This type of impertinence could mean only one thing, according to Lysias: Glaucus knew something about Antipas and Herodias guessed what it was. And it was making a haggard, sharp-tongued, short-tempered old shrew of her. Sometimes a whole week would pass in which Herodias and Salome frankly avoided one another, though they both took pains to be polite in the presence of the servants.

Some day, reflected Lysias, as he sanded and sealed his letter to David, some day there was going to be quite a lot of trouble here at the palace; plenty—and plenty more—of trouble…There would be an eruption of the Volcano Herodias—and somebody would get hurt.

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