come with her, saying, “She will believe that I did it.” “Of all the things to say!” Berenice burst out. “Never say that again—never suggest it! Never!” But she went alone to her mother’s bedside and stood stiff and unmoved over the weeping Cypros, thinking to herself with abstract curiosity, “This woman loved him. She actually loved him.”
“He was so good,” Cypros said to her. “No one knew truly how good he was, how kind he was. He was misunderstood. He was so lonely and so misunderstood—”
There was nothing Berenice could say, so she stood woodenly and listened, without disagreeing.
“We will take his body to Jerusalem,” Cypros whispered. “There must be a great procession—to do him honor.”
“In this heat?” Berenice exclaimed.
“How dare you speak of heat!” Cypros cried out, suddenly regal and alive, pressing herself up from her bed. “Have the embalmers lay out his sweet body with pungent spices in a cedar coffin. Make the arrangements—” The effort exhausted her. White as a ghost, she lay back on her bed, staring at her daughter. “Ungrateful—ungrateful—he loved you.”
Berenice could not tolerate another moment of it, and calling back the women in attendance, she left her mother and went to Agrippa. It was twilight. She and her brother stood alone in the long, open chamber where breakfast had been served that morning, only a few hours before, and they looked at each other, and finally Agrippa asked her how it had gone with his mother.
“As you might expect—”
“She took it poorly.”
“I think she’s dying,” Berenice said flatly. “I don’t think this will matter very much.”
“How can you be so cold about it all?” Agrippa demanded.
“Cold? I’m neither warm nor cold,” Berenice said testily. “I am trying to do what has to be done. I didn’t love him, and I can’t mourn him.”
“He was the king,” Agrippa said. “He had the power of life and death. He could have crushed us—he could have done what he willed with us—”
“He’s dead,” Berenice said sharply. “Pull yourself together. You are king now—with Rome’s will. That’s the point—how the Emperor Claudius will take this. I never quite understood how it was between him and father. Now Claudius and you—”
“I am the king,” Agrippa nodded. “Strange. I try to feel it. There should be a difference—”
“If Claudius wills it,” Berenice nodded.
“Still, I am king. I am king now.” Agrippa cast about him, trying to pierce the gathering shadows. “Why don’t they bring light?” He cried out for the lamp bearers, who came running, setting the flickering lights in their places around the room. Now the mourners were gathering in front of the palace, to bewail the passing of a king of the Jews who was like a saint. Berenice could hear their keening—and she knew that it would go on all night long.
“The least I can do is avenge him,” Agrippa said.
“On whom?” Berenice asked.
“You spoke of the finger of God. Do you believe—”
“The finger of God, I have found,” Berenice said, “moves in its own good time. What will it profit us to find the murderer?”
“What will it profit us?” Agrippa cried, aghast at her cold and practical attitude. “Is there no such thing as justice? Does a man murder a king and go unpunished? Does our own flesh and blood need no vengeance?”
“Our own flesh and blood is the last thing I am concerned about at this moment,” Berenice said gently. “Think this through, brother. Try to see what we are getting into, before we step into it. Who could have poisoned the king? Think!”
“Any number of people,” Agrippa replied.
“Hardly. I’ll tell you who could have done it. Firstly, the Roman, Germanicus Latus—do we accuse him, break with Rome, kill a legate? And then what—war with Rome?”
“Why would Latus do it?”
“Hold on now,” Berenice warned him. “I did not say that he did it. I said he
“He was so good,” Cypros said to her. “No one knew truly how good he was, how kind he was. He was misunderstood. He was so lonely and so misunderstood—”
There was nothing Berenice could say, so she stood woodenly and listened, without disagreeing.
“We will take his body to Jerusalem,” Cypros whispered. “There must be a great procession—to do him honor.”
“In this heat?” Berenice exclaimed.
“How dare you speak of heat!” Cypros cried out, suddenly regal and alive, pressing herself up from her bed. “Have the embalmers lay out his sweet body with pungent spices in a cedar coffin. Make the arrangements—” The effort exhausted her. White as a ghost, she lay back on her bed, staring at her daughter. “Ungrateful—ungrateful—he loved you.”
Berenice could not tolerate another moment of it, and calling back the women in attendance, she left her mother and went to Agrippa. It was twilight. She and her brother stood alone in the long, open chamber where breakfast had been served that morning, only a few hours before, and they looked at each other, and finally Agrippa asked her how it had gone with his mother.
“As you might expect—”
“She took it poorly.”
“I think she’s dying,” Berenice said flatly. “I don’t think this will matter very much.”
“How can you be so cold about it all?” Agrippa demanded.
“Cold? I’m neither warm nor cold,” Berenice said testily. “I am trying to do what has to be done. I didn’t love him, and I can’t mourn him.”
“He was the king,” Agrippa said. “He had the power of life and death. He could have crushed us—he could have done what he willed with us—”
“He’s dead,” Berenice said sharply. “Pull yourself together. You are king now—with Rome’s will. That’s the point—how the Emperor Claudius will take this. I never quite understood how it was between him and father. Now Claudius and you—”
“I am the king,” Agrippa nodded. “Strange. I try to feel it. There should be a difference—”
“If Claudius wills it,” Berenice nodded.
“Still, I am king. I am king now.” Agrippa cast about him, trying to pierce the gathering shadows. “Why don’t they bring light?” He cried out for the lamp bearers, who came running, setting the flickering lights in their places around the room. Now the mourners were gathering in front of the palace, to bewail the passing of a king of the Jews who was like a saint. Berenice could hear their keening—and she knew that it would go on all night long.
“The least I can do is avenge him,” Agrippa said.
“On whom?” Berenice asked.
“You spoke of the finger of God. Do you believe—”
“The finger of God, I have found,” Berenice said, “moves in its own good time. What will it profit us to find the murderer?”
“What will it profit us?” Agrippa cried, aghast at her cold and practical attitude. “Is there no such thing as justice? Does a man murder a king and go unpunished? Does our own flesh and blood need no vengeance?”
“Our own flesh and blood is the last thing I am concerned about at this moment,” Berenice said gently. “Think this through, brother. Try to see what we are getting into, before we step into it. Who could have poisoned the king? Think!”
“Any number of people,” Agrippa replied.
“Hardly. I’ll tell you who could have done it. Firstly, the Roman, Germanicus Latus—do we accuse him, break with Rome, kill a legate? And then what—war with Rome?”
“Why would Latus do it?”
“Hold on now,” Berenice warned him. “I did not say that he did it. I said he
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