The Missing Madonna - Chapter 5 "The Rages of Herod"

“The bloody foot, I can’t bloody stand it. Joachim, come here, come and bathe this wretched leg.”

I sat up on my haunches and glared at my night servant who had done nothing to deserve the look I gave him. He scurried off, with a hurried ‘Yes, of course, your majesty,’ and was gone to fetch some water and soothing ointment. It wasn’t midnight yet and eight long hours stretched out before me, hours of darkness and black pain and despair. I groaned as the movement I made shot arrows of fire through my leg up through my hips and to my stomach. Haven’t they anything that can blot out this throbbing nightly agony other than render me comatose with one of their hideous filters? Sixty seven years old, the Jew’s scriptures say that our span is threescore years and ten, so I’ve just under three more years to endure and I don’t know that I can make it - what’s more, I’m not sure now that I want to. Everything’s fallen apart these last few years, there’s little more I can accomplish in this state. I can give a few more orders perhaps, things will happen because I say so, but there is little I shall accomplish with my own hands or actions.

Joachim reappears with a bowl of steaming water and puts it beside the bedroll. He bows and murmurs the necessary ‘Your majesty’ again under his breath and begins to wipe the warm damp cloth gently over the swollen tortured rotting flesh. I wish he’d say something to take my mind off this parlous state I’m in, but he won’t say anything except in response to my command or invitation and I’m too full of my woes, too tired to think of anything else. I can’t concentrate, it’s bad enough during the day when I have government business to conduct, when it’s months since I slept for more than a couple of hours during the night watch.

At last he finishes his task, the ointment will give a little temporary relief from the most acute pain, but it’ll be a miracle if I can snatch this opportunity for a few minutes’ sleep. He takes up his position outside the hanging robes of my ante-chamber so he is in earshot should I need him further and I am alone. Alone with my thoughts because as I suspected, longed-for sleep will not come.

Huh, my thoughts! What a mess they are now. I was Caesar’s choice for this throne and now I can’t even sit on it in comfort. He still expects me to keep control here and I can’t control my own family. Oh Alexander and Aristobulus, why oh why did you plot against me? What did you intend to do? Were you going to dispose of me and then divide the kingdom among yourselves or would one of you take after me and murder the other brother to have it all yourself? And what were you going to do about Antipater, the eldest and my heir? If you had murdered me, then you surely would have done away with him also. No wonder he was my informant on your treacherous plans. What had turned you away from me? I gave you so much, you were the favoured sons of my favourite wife, you could have had so much anyway without taking such an extreme step against me. Did you really think I’d leave you nothing? That I’d let Antipater rule over the whole kingdom as the Romans allowed me to? The Romans would never have allowed that, Antipater has not proved himself to the Emperor as I did on numerous occasions. They’d have split the kingdom up even if I had not decreed it. Instead you are impatient, you wanted too much too soon. You were too like your mother, Mariamne, who wanted her own way and I’d have given her almost anything except the throne itself which she coveted for her young brother Aristobulus. So she named you after him and have you then inherited her loathing of me despite the love I bestowed and still had for her and you? It was you, Aristobulus, wasn’t it, that poisoned the mind of your brother Alexander, and got him to plot with you. Yes, he was popular with my troops, perhaps with him on your side you’d have got away with it.

So you made me do it. Don’t throw that hurtful look at me, it’s no use you denying the treachery you’d planned. Antipater told me everything, I wanted to spare you from the torture, but you wouldn’t admit to what was so obvious. So Alexander confessed, you forced him to the torture also by your stubbornness, he was reluctant to admit that you were the instigator but I know you were even though you will still not admit it. I did not want to see you die but you insisted that I watched your execution, and I attended thinking that at least I’d get your confession and plea for mercy and then you were defiant and protested your innocence looking at me in that hurtful way before I shut my ears and ordered the execution to continue. Ugh, your head rolled from the block, your eyes still open staring at me. Be gone, you ghost, don’t think you can haunt me now. Your curse will not wound me further, my limbs were already in travail before this wretched day dawned. I’d have stopped the execution of Alexander had I known your obstinacy, but that act had already been carried out in the barracks, I could not bear to watch that. I was a fool to think Alexander was wholeheartedly in this plot, I should have spared his life at least. So he is on my raddled conscience now. So, Aristobulus, what of your brood now? Shall I thrust out your wife and her gaggle of sons, are they already vipers in the nest? Will your treachery and my reaction to it poison the mind of the lad Agrippa? Will he one day inherit or will he try to avenge himself on Antipater and suffer the same fate as his father?

“Aaagh! By Zeus and Jehovah, it’s too much. I cannot take much more.”

I tried to move just then and the pain seared through my right leg. If I stay still my limbs ache and I get bedsores. Joachim comes running but there is nothing he can do.

“Get out! Don’t listen to my every breath.”

The wretched man would eavesdrop on the thoughts revolving round my head if I gave him the chance. There was a time I’d have kicked him round the courtyard for such presumption. It’s been over a year now since I fell from the horse and injured this leg. The physicians just thought I’d pulled a muscle, then, when it swelled and discoloured they said it was a blood clot. What did they do? Nothing! They argued amongst themselves and all the time the leg got worse. Bah, they pretend to know, they look so thoughtful, but it is just superficial. They haven’t a clue. I should kick them out and get one of the Galilean self-promoted miracle workers to have a go. They couldn’t do any worse. And if they failed, I could execute them for their failure and their preposterous claims, killing two birds with one stone, so to speak, undermining the rabble who follow them and create local difficulties for my soldiers there.

Oh Alexander, Alexander, Alexander! Why did you listen to your brother? You’d have made a fine successor, you were the only one who understood the troops, who had their respect and could hold on to the lands we Herod clan have gathered from the Romans. You were the only one who might have earned the trust of Octavian, what chance now Antipater? That self-serving thug, he knew what he was doing when he denounced you and Aristobulus. He was securing his own succession, because he knew he’d have a fight on his hands, that the army would have preferred you and might have overthrown his claim. I’ll have to watch him like a hawk. If he thinks I might have other ideas, he’ll see me off by bribing one of those incompetent medicants to slip me some poison under the pretext of another soothing filter. So what if I did pass him over for one of my other sons? Which of them is worthy of the role? Herod Antipas? He’s weak, he’d barely hang on to Galilee if I bequeathed that god-forsaken state to him. His brother Archelaus? A better bet perhaps, I’m not sure he’s ruthless enough, the others will do for him unless he gets in first and I can’t see him doing that. Philip? Maybe. Olympias, Phasael and the others? They’re too young, unknown qualities at the moment, and I fear the time is drawing close.

What sort of legacy will this lot leave for history? Can I trust any of them to enhance the name of Herod, build on the achievements I have made? I’ve been friends with the greatest of the age, Octavian, the Caesar Augustus, and before that, Marc Antony. In Caesar’s honour I’ve built a great harbour and fort at Caesarea and the Emperor honoured me with his presence at its dedication. I’ve built the Jews their Temple, outdoing that of Solomon, although the Pharisees and Sadducees squabble over its management and ritual and most Jews think it blasphemous that it was built by a foreigner although they all flock to it at festivals. I’ve kept the peace, the Romans have improved the city, I’ve got the taxes to the Romans without any insurrections here despite the crippling rates imposed for the new works undertaken.

I’m still awake. I guess not an hour has yet passed. I can’t think straight, yet sleep will not come. I’m drowsy, then the throbbing pain brings me to full consciousness. The thoughts I’m having reverberate round my brain. As I toss, then wince, and try to lay still once more, my mind revisits the argument raging through my head, Alexander and Aristobulus and Antipater and Antipas and Archelaus and Philip. Where are all the women who bare these sons? Why aren’t they here with me, soothing my brow, my brain? Why won’t they come near, while away the night hours with me? Why is the only one that I feel near me Mariamne whom I had executed nearly twenty five years ago? If she were here now she would be a screaming nagging hag, but I can only remember the voluptuous woman who captivated me and roused my senses night after night until I was satiated with her. I know she hated me yet she put up with my nightly demands on her with fortitude, she allowed her lusts to merge with mine. Perhaps she ignored the person that I was, treated me as a sexual body bent to her own desires, it didn’t matter, I adored her. And she bore my most favoured sons, Alexander and Aristobulus and now I’ve killed them.

For a while I drift into a light doze and Mariamne does come to me, eyes glinting, shedding her diaphanous robes letting me touch her exquisite skin, and then under my very eyes that skin ages, becomes rough and wrinkled and her face looks at me, an aged crone, then the skin falls away from even that hideous spectacle and becomes a leering skull. I awake dripping sweat, groaning aloud in pain and horror.

Antipater. My thoughts fill with him again. The more I think about him, the less confident I feel about his motives and the future in his hands. I don’t trust him. His betrayal of his brothers was too enthusiastic, he revelled in their downfall. Perhaps he fabricated part of the evidence for his own ends. I cannot bear the thought that perhaps Alexander was innocent. Yet he confessed under torture. Surely if he had been innocent he would have withstood that test? He was a brave soldier, surely torture would not have broken him so that he made a false confession? I will set spies to watch Antipater’s every move. They will report to me each day all his activities, his friends, they will inveigle themselves into his company and feign friendship with the monster. And if I find so much of a hint of treachery, intents upon my person, I’ll have him follow his brothers to the block. I’d better draw up contingency plans should that occur. I’ll make other wills. Perhaps Herod Antipas should inherit after all, or perhaps I could split the kingdom, put Archelaus in charge of Judea, and place Antipas and Philip into the more remote regions giving Archelaus a chance to establish himself in Jerusalem and gather sufficient allies to hold off any open rebellion or intrigue from the others.

I’m getting confused now, my mind is going round in circles, whatever I start to think breaks up and I see the snags before I’ve thought it through. I’m too tired to contemplate such strategic things properly at this hour, yet I can’t stop my mind being occupied by such matters for other matters are mundane, are trivia. The only other thing I am aware of is my pain and I’m trying to divert my brain away from this pointless indulgence. My advisors seek to influence me, but I know they split into factions, how do I know which one to trust? They already see my end approaching and they are scrambling around trying to guess which of my sons to ally themselves with. Well, the ones that chose Alexander or Aristobulus are flailing around now in the darkness, if they jump to Antipater perhaps they’ll regret that too. They were busy reminding me yesterday that my end is foretold anyway, the superstitious buffoons. Well if they’re right, I’ll see I take them with me. They spoke of a prophecy foretold in the Jewish scriptures that the longed for Messiah will arise after seventy seven generations from the first man. Then they tell me, the fools, that I’m of the seventy sixth generation, so I needn’t worry about my succession after all. What foolhardiness! They think I’m too weak to condemn them for such blasphemy? It only needs a word from me to my faithful guards, they do not realise how near the edge they are treading. Another word out of place and I’ll have them strung up for the birds to pick to pieces.

And they think that no-one will regret my passing? I’ll show them. I’m making a list of everyone who’s offended me these last few years and I’ll leave instructions in my will for all of them to be brought to the hippodrome. They’ll think they’ve been invited to some boring ceremony as my memorial, they’ll not dare to absent themselves. And when they’re there and waiting for something to happen, my guards will slaughter every single one of them. No mourning at my death? We’ll see about that. Half of Jerusalem will have lost someone, there’ll be plenty of funerals, plenty of wailing. I’ve got over two hundred on the list already. At least Antipater will have no qualms in carrying my instructions out. He’ll enjoy the carnage, that bloodthirsty son of mine, that’ll ensure no Jew dares to oppose him. Making peace with the Romans after that might be a bit more tricky, but that’ll be his problem, not mine. Only Joachim knows of the whereabouts of this list. Perhaps I ought to take Antipater into my confidence. He’ll want to spare one or two of the courtiers who have been his supporters, I’m fooling myself if I think he’ll sacrifice them too. I’ll add those Jewish priests who keep feeding me this prophecy nonsense, and those ones that advised me the other day when those Persian astrologers came with some fairy tale about a new king being born. I ask you, all this way and they got it wrong. I’ve had no children now for nearly four years and the last one was a girl anyway. Then they have the temerity to tell me that it could be this Messiah, this scion of the seventy seventh generation that is going to drive the Romans out, ha ha! What with, I ask? A rabble of home grown terrorists from upper Galilee? They’re nothing more than crude and greedy bandits preying on rich men who’ve given support to art, culture and education, things they despise.

Nonsense though it is, it could be dangerous. It’ll give some fool the idea that he can mount a challenge against me using this so called Messiah if they can convince some Jews that they’ve got a miraculous baby somewhere. Perhaps even one of my sons will try it on, offering to be regent until the boy comes of age and then having him executed or assassinated under some pretext. When one of the astrologers asked us where a king could be born if not in our royal palace, some idiot priest quoted an obscure scripture that mentions the town of Bethlehem. That wretched peasant village of all places, five miles from here, anyone of any worth soon comes to the city here. Then they quote their ancestor David who apparently came from that place, they think he’s the king to end all kings and it must be seven or eight hundred years since he lived. What did he achieve that I haven’t? Why don’t they honour the king they have now instead of worshipping some corpse that’s been rotting in the grave for centuries? Did David give them a magnificent Temple? No, that was his son, Solomon, and the one I’ve built is bigger, more splendid. Did he build cities like Caesarea and foster trade that has made many Jews rich beyond compare with ancient times? No, of course he didn’t. Did he maintain the peace and prosperity of his country? No, he was always fighting wars with neighbouring tribes. The Jews don’t realise the debt they owe to me and the Romans for the prosperity and civilisation we’ve brought to this country.

“Joachim, Joachim!”

He comes running.

“Yes, your majesty?”

“Bathe my leg again and get me some more of that filter preparation that is meant to dull the pain.”

He hesitates. He knows that too much of that stuff will make me confused and delirious, but I don’t care, it will shorten the hours until daylight. He wants to warn me, but he dare not. He does not trust my temper. He fears I will add his name to the list I have entrusted to his care. He obeys my command. For a few precious minutes I can feel the balm and hope for oblivion for a short while. Then he is finished. But nothing happens. My mind will still not rest. Those astrologers were instructed to return to me to tell me if they’d found this so-called baby king. That was days ago, surely they should have returned by now? Huh, perhaps they’re still looking, still searching, frustrated because there’s nothing to find.

This thought will not go away now. Why haven’t they returned? Have they really found the prophesied child? Would they tell me if they had? I don’t trust them, why should they trust me? I’ll have a search made for them, force them back to explain to me, I don’t care who they are, they can’t treat me with such lack of respect.

“Joachim, Joachim!”

“Yes, your majesty?”

“Fetch Uriah!”

“But it’s well past midnight, your majesty.”

“I don’t care, wake him if necessary and bring him here.”

Uriah claims to be my chief advisor, that’s what he tells others any way. I make a pretence of listening to him sometimes then do what I will. And he pretends that it was him who advised me so. It’s a long time before Uriah appears and I’m getting impatient.

“Uriah, organise a search for the astrologers who claimed they’d come to honour the birth of a king.”

“Your majesty, this has already been done. When they failed to return here within two days, I organised such a search immediately.”

“Well, why haven’t you brought them to me, then? What did they have to say?”

“Your majesty, we couldn’t find them. We searched everywhere. We’ve tried all the inns.
There were rumours that they had left the same night after taking our advice earlier in the day, and we had soldiers set off in pursuit along the way to Jericho and the East, but although they went over 50 miles, there was no sign of them and no-one admitted to seeing any strangers.”

“They tricked you. Foreigners in a strange country and they managed to deceive you. I’m surrounded by nothing but fools. Get out of my sight. You’re useless.”

I’m glad to see the wretched man is frightened, he doesn’t know whether I’ll have him punished now or later. Poor fool, I’ll just add him to my list. He backs out nearly tripping over his own feet.

So, they tricked me. Why? Was that because they found nothing and were too humiliated to come back and own up to their humiliation, months of travelling for nothing, an absurd wild goose chase? But if, as Uriah said, they left the same night, they must have found something. They would not have given up so easily. What did they find? And if they found a baby they convinced themselves was this prince, why did they not return to me? Who told them to leave quickly? Is there some truth in this ancient prophecy after all? Or at least enough similarity for them to think it is the truth, which could be just as dangerous. We must nip it in the bud. How?

I’m trying to think this through but I keep falling into a light doze. Then my fevered imagination merges with dreams, horrible dreams in which my sons and Mariamne laugh at me, and accuse me of being cuckolded, that one of my wives has born a son I know nothing of. Then the mothers of Bethlehem are swarming all over the palace all crying out ‘this is the one, this is the one’ until I’m shouting for them to stop the noise.

Joachim comes rushing in.

“Sire, you called out. What do you want? Can I bring you something?”

“Go back, Joachim, it’s alright. I was just dreaming.”

I’ve got to do something to get to the bottom of this. I can’t leave the uncertainty to fester on. I can call the commander of my forces in the morning and question him about the search they’ve made, but what will that tell me? Only the same as Uriah reported. He certainly had no motive to hold back anything he knew. He’s too frightened of me. So what do I know? The astrologers said they saw a sign back in their own country. That must have been several months ago, then they would have had preparations for the journey and they must have been travelling for several weeks. So when would the baby, if there was one, have been born? How old would he be now? Probably about nine months, perhaps a year or even more, perhaps eighteen months at most. And how many boys of that age would there be in a town like Bethlehem?

“Joachim!”

He comes quickly like a faithful dog, ever willing. It is less boring for him if I keep him occupied.

“Joachim, how big is Bethlehem. How many inhabitants?”

“It’s not too large, Sire. Between five hundred and a thousand I should think, including women and children. Do you want me to fetch Uriah again?”

“No, that is near enough.”

“Do you want anything else, your majesty?”

“No, not for the moment.”

Five hundred, let’s say a thousand to be on the safe side. How many children will that be? At least half I would guess. And how many will be babies? A tenth of those? Up to fifty. And half will be girls, so that leaves twenty five baby boys. And up to two years old to be sure? Another twenty five perhaps. Fifty children and any of them could be a threat if this story gets around as it will. Have I got that right? I can’t trust my brain to calculate with accuracy at the moment. Does it sound right? Fifty out of a thousand. Twenty five out of five hundred. A hundred if Joachim has underestimated the size of the village. Does it matter? One would be bad enough.

Thoughts are festering in my mind. Why not get it over quickly? I could be tormented for days if this uncertainty remains. Easy enough after all. My Idumean troops will not hesitate, they’ve always been loyal and they have no family links to this Judean village. What’s a few lives hardly started, worthless peasants? I’m saving them from a life of poverty and drudgery. They should thank me. Shall I consult Uriah again? A recipe for indecision that would be - he’ll remonstrate with me, if he has the courage, he’ll warn me that I will alienate not just the Jews in that village but the message will spread. What does that matter? Most Jews don’t like me anyway. The influential ones know where their favours lie and they won’t complain. And the Romans, they couldn’t care less. They’ll just see the actions of a strong king able to keep order and ensure his own succession. No problems there. Oh, hell and damnation! This abominable pain gets no better, I can’t be bothered to think this through any further. I’m the king, they’ll do what I ask and ask no questions either.

“Joachim, Joachim.”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“Fetch Judah, the commander of my guard. Now, don’t look so quizzical. Now, at once!”

“Yes, Sire.”

What if it is barely two hours past midnight? Soldiers are paid to be on their guard. He should be alert, not sleeping. He could sort it out by dawn and be back inside the barracks before crowds begin to come onto the streets, and it’ll take a day before the news of any backlash begins to filter through to the city. I’ll have a few extra troops patrol the main thoroughfares just in case of any trouble.

He doesn’t take long and I’m pleased to see he’s in full uniform, no quick panic leaving details unattended to.

Judah salutes.

“Your majesty, what is your wish? Is there some emergency that needs my immediate attention?”

“Yes, Judah. I want you to take handpicked men from your company and put down a potential challenge to my authority before daybreak.”

“Where, Sire? How big is the danger? Are there many men involved and are they armed?”

“There’s rumour of a baby born in Bethlehem village that is claimed to be a king, the Jewish Messiah. I want him killed.”

“A baby? Surely a baby’s no threat to you, Sire?”

“It’s not the baby himself, it’s his potential followers if we let the story grow. There’s plenty of Jews only too willing to believe the ancient prophecies. They can make trouble and I want to pre-empt it, deal with the problem before it escalates.”

“But how do we find this baby? Do you know his identity and location?”

“We don’t know his precise identity. We know he comes from Bethlehem, we know astrologers from Persia heard rumours and came looking for him and were despatched to Bethlehem by the priests, and they didn’t stay long there so they must have found the child.”

“So what do you want me to do? Get all the villages to parade the children and bring any likely looking specimens back to you to scrutinize?”

“No, kill them all. All the boys. All those less than eighteen months old. No, make that two years old, to make sure.”

“But Sire…..”

“Don’t ‘but’ me, soldier. Those are your orders. Obey them. And tell your troops unless they wipe out any possible pretender to my throne I’ll have them crucified like common criminals.”

“When, Sire?”

“Now, now, how many times must I say this? Why do you think I’ve got you out of bed at this hour? To wait for a cosy chat about it in the morning? Get to it. I want a report on my desk before the midday meal or there’ll be trouble. And it better be that the task has been accomplished. I’m holding you responsible for that. And you can get more troops out patrolling the streets in Jerusalem and cordon off the road from Bethlehem, prevent anyone from the village getting through for a couple of days. Any trouble will have died down by then. See to it. Now soldier, now!”

“Yes, Sire, if that is your will.”

“It is my will, soldier. Do it!”