Джеймс Миченер - The Source

Octavian, whom now we worship as Caesar Augustus, watched with fascination as Herod prostrated himself, uncrowned and with no mark of dignity upon him, and on impulse the victorious emperor of the known world caused him to be raised up, saying, “It was a very good thing for me that Antony listened to Cleopatra’s advice and not yours. Through his folly I have gained your friendship. Henceforth you shall be my king of the Jews.” Thus Herod, with a bravery not equaled in my lifetime, regained his throne from an enemy who normally should have slain him.

As in so much that he has done, Caesar Augustus acted wisely, for Herod has proved one of the great kings of the Roman provinces. I’ve worked for the proconsuls of Antioch and Spain, and they did not compare in either character or energy with our king Herod. He has kept peace in his part of the empire while extending our borders to their natural limits. To the Jewish kingdom, which had known war and desolation under the later Maccabees, he has brought tranquillity if not acceptance; during his reign no bandits and no extremists have plagued our land, and some years ago when I stopped off in Rome on my return from Spain, Augustus himself told me, “I remember that day when you came to Rhodes with Herod. It was an impudent gesture he made, but I wish I had always chosen my kings so wisely.”

How then, in spite of these successes, has Herod degenerated so miserably? Was he haunted by some evil spirit determined to destroy his grandeur? Or did his hatred and suspicion of the Jews slowly derange his mind? Some say that a snake wormed its way into his belly, gnawing at his vitals, but Shelomith and her Jews claim that their god has placed a special curse upon him for having usurped the throne of David. I have my own theory.

I should have foreseen that these things might happen, for thirty-one years ago he came to my quarters in Jericho, where I was building him a temple, and threw himself upon my couch, whispering with horror, “Myrmex! You must kill a man! I have proof that Aristobolus has conspired against me.” I drew back in surprise, for Mariamne’s brother was only seventeen and the darling of the Jews, for in him they saw a prospect for the re-establishment of Maccabean rule.

“The young schemer has plotted to steal my kingdom and must die,” Herod whispered, and when I warned him not to kill the queen’s brother, he cried in a mad frenzy, “Don’t mention their names together. Mariamne’s a goddess and her brother a viper.” Then he added significantly, “This afternoon he goes swimming.” He summoned the captain of his Cilician guard, who explained the plot: “Myrmex, the young man trusts you. When he enters the pool, you move forward to embrace him, but in doing so, grab his arms. My men will swim under water and catch his feet.”

It was a lovely pool, one that I had edged with marble, and I made believe that I was swimming when Aristobolus appeared, moving through the sunlight as if he were a Roman god. “Greetings, Timon,” he called, and when he came down the marble steps I waded forward to embrace him and pinioned his arms, so that when the Cilicians grabbed his feet I could feel the tremor pass through his body. He gave me a wild stare, his eyes less than a cubit from mine, but I set my teeth and brought my hands upward until they grasped his neck, and in this manner we dragged him under the water.

I had nearly forgot that murder of Aristobolus—for dynasties must protect themselves, and the young Maccabean had proved himself too popular with the mob—when Herod climbed the steep path to Massada, where I was converting ruins into a fortress-palace unmatched in the east, and there as we sat like eagles looking down upon the Dead Sea and the hills of Moab he whispered again, “Myrmex, how can I bring myself to do it?” He became a man distraught, almost insane I judged, and when he began moaning like a witch I dismissed my helpers and as they filed down the rocky footpath like ants I asked what he was required to do that so agitated him.

“I must kill Mariamne,” he said, looking up at me like a wild Essene from the desert.

“No. No,” I protested as if he were my brother, but on his mountain peak he ranted on with circumstantial evidence against his blameless wife. He truly intended to kill her, for in some way she had conspired against him. I deafened my ears and said, “Get down from here and tell me no such madness,” and he drew back with fearful suspicion, his hand on his sword, for we were alone at the edge of the cliff, and he cried, “You are in league with her too. Augustus protect me! Myrmex intends murdering me.” I slapped the mad king and led him slowly down from the cliff, saying, “If you cannot trust me, Herod, your world is indeed crumbled.” And when we were on safe ground I said, “Now tell me your fantasies.”

I took him back to Jericho and during each portion of the trip he recited her guilt. He had proof without question, he said, and for three days he raved, unable to bring himself to kill her. But finally he gave the signal and his mercenaries marched implacably to Mariamne’s room—they rarely ran to such assignments—and slaughtered her.

When his faultless wife was dead he loved her more than he had when she was alive. He stormed about his vast palaces, screaming for mercy from the ghosts that haunted him. He would come rushing to my apartment and sit staring at Shelomith, then break into passionate tears, crying, “I killed the fairest Jewish princess the world has known. I am condemned.” In grotesque sequence he married a chain of other women. He had many children who may already have inherited his kingdom, and he stormed among his female slaves, pointing to this girl or that and shouting, “You are not Mariamne,” but he took them nevertheless.

On the ship that brought me back from Spain there had been a wench well used by sailors, an attractive girl whom I in my loneliness fancied, but the captain of the vessel warned me, “She has the seaport sickness,” so I contented myself with watching from afar, but one day as Herod walked along the quays at Caesarea he saw this girl and cried, “You are Mariamne,” and she did indeed look like our dead queen. “Not that one,” I pleaded, but he was obsessed with her regal beauty and had his way, but later when the sickness struck he railed at me, “I told you it was Mariamne! She has come back to curse me,” and he fell ill, but an Egyptian doctor cured him for a while.

When his anguish was greatest, when something reminded him especially of Mariamne, he would come to me distraught and say, “We shall build a superior temple at Antioch,” and for a while his energies would be diverted into this channel. But soon ugly suspicions of other plots against him would develop. One day he ordered thirteen women placed upon the rack for such tortures as no human body could stand, and when in their agony they confessed to fantastic crimes and implicated men they did not even know, the suspected ones were dragged to an arena where the mercenaries were sent among them swinging their short swords, hacking and killing the innocent until we who watched were sickened.

Then he came to me, whispering again, “They are plotting against me.” And this time it was his own children, the sons of Mariamne whom Shelomith and I had helped name. We had been present at their circumcisions, and now they were accused of attempting to poison their father. This time, praised be the gods, Caesar Augustus intervened to warn Herod that he must not kill his own sons, and there was a pathetic reconciliation in which Alexander and Aristobolus—the latter had been named for his uncle whom I had helped drown—tearfully swore filial love for their demented father and promised him their loyalty.

But within a short time he came to me once more: “The fiends are still planning to kill me,” and this time he brought me proof of their guilt. I therefore accompanied him to Berytus, the city that Caesar Augustus had appointed for the trial, and on behalf of my king I made an impassioned plea before the judges. Herod himself followed with a hideous series of charges and at last the court gave him reluctant permission to kill his sons, should he upon reconsideration wish to do so. Clutching the permissive papers like a maniac, Herod returned to Judaea with a list of three hundred principal citizens who were suspected of being involved in the plot, and when I saw the names I realized that many of the victims could not possibly have been implicated and I started to argue with him, but he shrieked, “They have conspired against me and they shall die.”