Berenice’s hand tightened on her goblet. The gold bowed, but did not dent. ‘Where to?’
‘I don’t know, but for the worth of eight talents, a place could surely be bought. Only let it be paid for openly by the king. If the Hebrews wish to give him gold later that’s their affair, but to begin with, if the land is seen as the king’s gift, none will dare insult it as they have done the synagogue.’
‘She’s right.’ Drusilla nodded, smiling. ‘The question is whether our brother will allow it.’
‘No, the question is quite different.’ With her eyes still on the queen, Hypatia asked, ‘How close is Saulos to your brother?’
‘Ah.’ A reclining couch stood behind, upholstered in a blue just a shade deeper than the queen’s gown. Abruptly, Berenice sat on it.
A breeze hissed in through the windows. Hypatia moved to close the shutters, and paused, holding them half open. The moon was there, shining disc of Isis, past its height, sliding down towards the west, cast in replica on the ice-black water. She kept her back to the two royal sisters, hiding her face.
The whole world knew that Berenice, queen in Caesarea, had left her last surviving husband to return to the city of her birth. Some said that she, who lived for the joy of the hunt, had pined for the quality of the ibex and gazelles that ranged on the low hills to its south, being in want of equal quarry in the lands of her husband. Others said she loved her brother and had returned for the love of his touch. A very few said that she might have loved him, but that her brother, the king, could not bring himself to mate with any woman, even the few times necessary to beget a child.
The Empress Poppaea, who had best reason to know, had it differently. Agrippa didn’t call his sister, I sent her, and she went for love of me. Agrippa is not fit to rule; he’s weak and too easily swayed by his latest… attraction. Berenice has the heart of a monarch and she knows that her people’s interests are Rome’s interests. She will rule better than him or any of the idiot governors we send.
Hypatia closed the shutters. Berenice was still on the couch, watching her. Drusilla mustered a small smile.
Hypatia turned to face them. ‘Has he… Have they…?’
‘They are as brothers,’ Berenice said, crisply, which did not entirely answer the question Hypatia had not entirely asked; in this family, brothers might still be lovers.
‘Then there is no point in our discussing what may or may not be done with Yusaf’s gold. If Saulos has the king’s trust so completely, you will go to Jerusalem. Whatever they have been in the past, today, here, now, the riots outside are a tool and their purpose is to move you, to bring you more completely into Saulos’ power. Your question, then, is whether you are willing so to be moved.’
Dark stains grew in the armpits of Berenice’s gown. A greenish tinge marked the corners of her mouth and eyes, a sure sign that sickness was coming. She kept her head high. ‘What is your advice? Personally, not as the Chosen of Isis.’
‘The two are the same, lady. Unless you are ready to face Saulos down, you should appear meek in his company.’
‘How will I know if I am ready to face him?’
‘You will know. If you are not sure, then you are not ready. For now-’ Hypatia gave Drusilla her goblet, and rubbed her hands briskly. ‘There may be little time. Choose what you need and then what you most want. Pack them, or have them packed. Be ready, for the order to leave will come when you least expect it, and-’
The door crashed back with a force that broke the mosaics on the wall behind it.
Kleopatra, fully dressed, quite awake, stood framed in the entrance, twisting away from Polyphemos even as he tried to restrain her. Her black hair was wild about her shoulders. Her eyes were pale as ice, and burning.
‘Mother! Aunt Berenice… that is, your majesty! We have to go now!’ The emphasis robbed the sentence of everything except its urgency, but that was enough to bring the queen, her sister and her new counsellor to the doorway.
Berenice said, ‘Kleopatra, comport yourself. Polyphemos, what is she saying?’
The steward, too, was imperfectly dressed, and the unctuous hand-wringing had been swept away by a terror that left him grey. ‘Rioters have broken through the outer gates, majesty. To the east, the Hebrew synagogue is on fire. Men are fighting in the streets: Hebrews against Syrians, fighting to the death.’
‘Then the governor must-’
‘No, lady. Governor Florus took horse for Jerusalem when the king stood to speak in the theatre and now the Syrians are calling for the blood of the Herods to slake the foundations of their new buildings, and the Hebrews are calling on it for heresy, and for taking their gold without fulfilling the promise. For safety, you must go. We all must.’
‘No! The Syrians are our people, not our enemies. Polyphemos, find the king, tell him-’
‘He’s here, lady.’ Hypatia caught the queen’s elbow, turning her.
Agrippa stood in the corridor with a broken vase at his feet, scarlet tulips strewn across the black-on-white tiles. Water stained the gold tissue robes.
‘We must stay,’ Berenice said.
‘We can’t.’ Agrippa did not sound like a child, but not like a king, either. His voice cracked as he spoke. ‘Berenice, the riots are happening again, as they did when Father died. They’re setting us in effigy on the inn roofs, naming us whores, calling for our blood. We can’t hide in a cupboard now — they’ll tear the palace down to get to us. We have to leave. I’ve ordered the horses made ready. Jucundus of the Watch is here with a century of his men. We’ll go in two troops: Saulos and Iksahra will ride with us, Kleopatra and Hyrcanus with you.’
‘And Hypatia,’ Berenice said, and in that conceded defeat, even as she claimed a small triumph of her own. ‘The Chosen of Isis comes with us.’
Chapter Seventeen
News of the governor’s departure reached the crowd around the theatre at almost the same time as did news that the king had taken eight talents of Hebrew gold to use against the Syrians.
It didn’t matter that Agrippa hadn’t taken it, and wouldn’t have used it against the Syrians if he had: facts had reached that malleable state where they fitted the prejudice of any individual and, when enough people held the same prejudice, the result was incendiary.
News that the royal family were also planning to leave the city was the spark that lit the combustible mass, that pushed the simmering crowd into screaming hysteria, into rolling chants that called for Hebrew blood, for Syrian blood, for Herodian blood, for Roman blood… and soon, inevitably, just for blood.
Pantera thrust through the mass, seeking Mergus. If anyone thought him a Nabatean archer trying to flee the violence they were welcome. If they thought him an agent of the emperor, trying to undo the damage, they were equally welcome. As long as nobody thought him either Hebrew or Syrian and tried to slide a knife between his ribs, he was happy.
He shouted, ‘Make way, make way,’ alternately in Latin and in the desert tongue of the Saba brothers and cared not if nobody understood either; at least he wasn’t speaking Greek or Aramaic.
He came to a small square with a nine-pillared fountain whose pipes had been wrenched out of line, spilling water darkly, like free-flowing blood, across the pavings and none at all into the fountain. Beyond it stood a temple to Jupiter Dolichenos that had not yet been sacked and then a long blind wall. Beyond that, men fought to put out a fire. Others stood and watched, as they had in Rome, as if fire were an entertainment, not a danger.
There was no obvious route through and yet every time Pantera turned west towards the palace, where Saulos must be, the prickle in his spine drew him east again, towards the synagogue, like iron to a lodestone. He turned left, therefore, and pushed his way through the thinning crowd. At its margin, a tall, dark figure was forging a straight line through its thinnest edge.