The Coming of the King

Chapter Fourteen

Agrippa’s treasury in Caesarea was a room within a room, locked and barred and windowless and altogether too much like a prison for Berenice’s comfort.

With a riot brewing outside, she hadn’t wanted to go there, but basic decency required that the entire royal family take a detour to examine the Hebrews’ gift, and make the right noises to Polyphemos, who was blotched white and scarlet with the shock and kept hopping from one leg to the other, exclaiming that the gods — or god, he was unclear as to which — were positively beaming benevolences on the king and his family.

Polyphemos was given to displays of high emotion, but tonight even stolid Koriantos, the royal treasurer, was speechless, and that was not a thing Berenice had ever expected to see. Sometime in the recent past, he had bitten his knuckles so hard they bled and now he was walking round and round the gold like a hen who has hatched her first egg and found she has given birth to a harpy.

He had ordered extra torches brought in, and extra guards to hold them, and so the cramped room smelled of avarice and panic and the air glittered with polished iron from the guards’ mail and the bright, terrifying glamour of gold.

Berenice was a queen of the royal line; she was able, therefore, to smile, and nod, and smile again and ignore at all times the noise of the riot that was reaching its climax in the streets outside the palace.

It was no surprise, the riot. She had felt the pressure growing for days; sometimes she could taste it, rusty and sharp, like fetid iron, tinged with blood and bile. But now it was crushing her temples in a headache of fantastic proportions and the possibility that she might vomit was becoming increasingly real.

Such a thing could not be allowed to happen. Breathing the night air, she stepped out into the corridor that led to the throne room and, closing her eyes, counted down the line of the women who stood waiting in the corridor behind her. Drusilla was first, placid and compliant as ever, then Kleopatra, who was neither of these, but had bled for the first time a month ago and by rights should be found a husband.

After Kleopatra came Selene, Koriantos’ cousin on his mother’s side, who was sharper than she ever let on, and behind Selene… behind Selene stood the startling Alexandrian woman with the blue-black hair who had come as a gift from Poppaea, the friend-become-empress whom Berenice had loved, and who had loved her, and had understood more than anyone the many routes to power. Poppaea never did anything without good reason, and Hypatia, Chosen of Isis, had been her parting gift in this life.

Berenice did not believe that those given to Isis ever truly bent to the command of any other mortal. Their first meeting had been… disconcerting. Rarely had she felt so easily read, so readily seen. Her soul had been laid bare of its coverings and studied and it had taken a lifetime’s training to stand still and endure it, and smile, and maintain a steady flow of her own questions, so that she might not seem discomfited. She had learned from it, though, and thought she knew how to use that knowledge.

From her place at the head of her train, she turned. ‘We go next to the audience chamber,’ she said to Hypatia. ‘There, you will watch and listen to everything that takes place, but you will not speak unless asked. Afterwards, when we are alone, you will speak the truth to me, as the Oracle does.’

Hypatia inclined her head. ‘Majesty.’

Berenice straightened her back and turned to face ahead. A hundred blazing torches had lit their way to the palace and continued to do so within it. She led her women down the corridor towards the audience room, sweeping at a near-trot along marble tiles beneath lamps that burned sandalwood with their oil, to keep the air perpetually sweet; past confusions of cut flowers, of blood-red tulips in gold vessels, purple irises and scented thistles in silver, yellow thorowax in white marble; past watchmen at ten-pace intervals, dressed in full chain mail, sweating in the hot, humid air.

The chamber was as it had been, but that a second dais had been raised, with a throne for the king. The two banks of seats were set opposite one another, women to the west, men to the east, with the frieze in echo behind.

Agrippa was already there, lost in all his tissue of gold, so much his father’s son, and trying so hard not to be. And beside him, as ever… was nobody, at least nobody that mattered. Two counsellors sat, one on either side, and if she had been pushed, Berenice could probably have named them, but the third seat, which should have been occupied, was empty. As queen, she could not be seen to smile, but her heart danced, seeing an opening where none had been before.

She nodded towards her brother and saw Agrippa twitch a reply. He was tense, possibly also in pain, and for the same reasons as she was; he had always been sensitive to the mood of the city and just now it was as jagged and vicious and full of hate as it had been on the night their father died, when his three children had hidden in a palace cupboard and listened to the slaves whisper of the effigies on the rooftops that men paid good money to rape and stab and set on fire.

It was not a good thing to remember. Berenice took her seat and, after a finite pause, her courtiers did likewise: Drusilla, Selene, Kleopatra, Hypatia, those latter two not looking at each other, not making eye contact, which meant that the morning’s hunt had raised tensions or secrets that must be hidden.

And then, swiftly, Yusaf ben Matthias was ushered to a seat that was apart from both the men and the women, midway between both. The man who was the Hebrews’ most senior counsellor sat with his hands on his knees after the manner of the Egyptian pharaohs; with his beard and his so-costly silks, he came close to matching them for dignity.

Berenice caught his eye and nodded, fractionally, enough for him to know he had her support. She held his gaze for a heartbeat. They were not allies, but, for tonight, his wish was hers, and she needed him to know that.

A cymbal sounded the beginning of the conference. Berenice closed her eyes and sat back against the stiff, jewel-crusted throne and prayed to three different gods that Hypatia was at least half of all that myth and rumour said she was.

‘You pay us too much,’ Agrippa said, with no preamble. ‘The Syrians will wonder how you collected eight whole talents of gold.’

Yusaf answered evenly. ‘His majesty has six thousand loyal Hebrew merchants in Caesarea, each one of whom values the sanctity of God’s house above all else. If each man therefore donates a shekel here, a gold aureus there, even a handful of denarii, the amount comes to what our king holds now in his treasury. We commend it to his care, and pray that it might be used wisely.’

‘There are ten thousand Syrian men in Caesarea, and as many youths,’ Agrippa answered. ‘Would you have us hold them back single-handed when they endeavour to tear down your synagogue? They will do that if we grant you this. You must know that.’

‘I know that if his majesty orders peace,’ Yusaf said, ‘the peace will be kept. The Watch will see to that.’

‘The Watch can do nothing in the face of ten thousand angry citizens.’

‘And yet if it is known that the Watch will mount a guard on the synagogue, it may send a message to the Syrians that will cool their ardour.’

‘It will tell them that their king does not love them,’ Agrippa said. ‘It would not be true and we cannot allow them to believe so. It would be the end of our reign.’

Berenice saw Yusaf blink, open his mouth to speak and close it again. He lowered his head.

Nobody else spoke. Polyphemos lifted his arm to strike the cymbal that closed the debate. She caught his eye and made him stop; as queen, she alone had permission to speak after the king. She softened her voice, and yet gave it power to carry.

‘And yet if his majesty fails to act on so public a giving, on such a weight of generosity, if he returns the money, the Hebrews will likewise come to believe he does not love them. As will the Syrians, who may become importunate in their enthusiasm. It is well known that his majesty worships the Hebrew god. The gift was given to him. Therefore, he may use it as a pious act. None will think less of him.’

Agrippa turned his head, resting his chin on one finger, and studied her as if from a distance. She wondered then if he had been drugged; in the light of the many blazing torches, his eyes were dark dots. She thought he might accept, saw him nod, as if to an inner voice, and open his mouth and she leaned forward and forward, until Drusilla tapped her elbow and said, ‘Beware,’ in Latin, softly.

She had not heard Saulos enter. Soft-footed, smelling of smoke and rage, he strode past, throwing her a look of such loathing, such triumph, that she felt her heart tumble in her chest. Shock held her still as he took his seat and by the time he had turned he was still again; the consummate counsellor, all-wise and ready with an answer. His features, when he turned to Yusaf, were a portrait of restrained regret.

‘The king loves all his subjects equally,’ Saulos said. ‘Which is why he must return the gold to the Hebrews and yet forbid the Syrians from any further action which will discommode them in their worship. In such a way, will he be seen to reign with an even hand, fairly and decently.’

Yusaf slapped his hands on the chair arms. ‘But there will be chaos! The Syrians will take advantage. Our youths will not be restrained. They will-’

‘They will do as their king commands. As will you.’ Saulos’ voice held a new bite. ‘And now he commands you to silence.’

Agrippa had not spoken. He stared at Yusaf, who stared back, disgust barely veiled in his eyes.

‘Then, with great regret, I must take my leave. Your majesty… My queen.’

He had not been dismissed, but Yusaf rose anyway, his knees cracking in the hush. Guards came forward, one on either side, to hold him still or to help him depart, whichever was commanded.

Agrippa waved him away. ‘Leave the eight talents in our treasury after you are gone. If we return them to you, and so refuse your request, know that it will be in sorrow, but that we do what is best for our city.’

‘Your city is in riot, majesty,’ Yusaf answered. ‘The Syrians bay for your blood. Know that we would have prevented it, had we been granted the power to do so.’