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Authors: Howard Fast
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could have. So could Joseph Bennoch. Do you suspect him? A child?”
“Not him,” Agrippa agreed.
“So much if the poison was in the bottle. But if it was dropped into the cup, we have more possibilities—the priest, Phineas, the seneschal, Herod-Kophas, our cousin, the scribe, Joash, and that noble whore, Zipporah Basomen. Each of them held the cup for a moment; each of them had the opportunity. Well, whom do we accuse? Herod-Kophas? Why? What reason? Fifty others must die before he is in line for the throne. And if we accuse him, then we confess to the world that we murder each other. Who else? The scribe, Joash? He’s a Pharisee—we accuse him and split the nation in two again, Pharisees on one side, Sadducees on the other? And why? What would it profit him? Or the girl. Do we accuse her and set a large and powerful family of Jews against us? But where is her motive? And lastly—the priest, Phineas, whom we both despise. He’s lost his protector, his home, his hopes, his cushy post, and the bag of food he devours each day. Yes, we could find him and crucify him, and no one would complain very much—although I am sure he’s halfway to Jerusalem by now, whipping some poor horse to death. No, he had no motive.”
“Then who had a motive?” Agrippa asked.
“Only one of them,” Berenice said. “The Roman.”
“Surely you’re not serious.”
“Surely I am,” Berenice said. “It neither profits nor hinders him to have the king dead, but he sent us the wine, and he serves his master, Claudius.”
“Father’s friend?”
“You think father had friends?” Berenice smiled.
The following day, just before the funerary procession left for Jerusalem, Germanicus Latus payed a formal call on Berenice, explaining that circumstances did not permit his making the journey to Jerusalem, much as he desired to. “For the king was my dear and beloved friend—as he was of all Romans—a brilliant and interesting man.” Then Latus went on to say that he did not find the king’s daughter less interesting or unusual. “They say you are only sixteen. Is this possible?” he asked Berenice.
“It is possible,” Berenice smiled.
“I can hardly credit it. You will forgive me if I do not stress the matter of condolences. I don’t imagine that you were too upset when the king died.”
“He was my father,” Berenice replied evenly.
“Of course. Of course. And I would be the last to belittle the bonds of blood. Nevertheless—”
He smiled and mopped his bare skull with a kerchief. His face was round and innocent as a child’s, his dark eyes open and frank.
“Nevertheless—we attempt to understand each other.”
“I always attempt to understand any representative of Rome’s first citizen.”
“Very nicely put, that,” Latus nodded. “Hot here—I don’t know how you Galileans stand the heat of these coastal places. I much prefer your green hills.”
“Thank you,” Berenice smiled. “I too prefer the hills of Galilee to the coastal plain. But my father was here—”
“And where he was, his loyal daughter was,” Latus nodded.
“If you wish to think of it in that way.”
“Ah—yes, I suppose that I do. Your Latin is excellent, Queen Berenice.”
“That’s hardly surprising, since I spent a year in Rome as a child. Not that I remember too much, but the language is formed. I also had a Latin tutor as well as a Greek tutor.”
“Amazing,” Latus nodded, clasping his hands around his fat, protruding stomach. “Utterly amazing—the more so to such an ignoramus as myself. How many languages do you have, my dear?”
“Latin and Greek,” Berenice replied dutifully, “and of course my native tongue, Aramaic. I also speak a little Egyptian—the patois—and naturally Hebrew, our holy tongue, in which our sacred books are written.”
“Five languages,” the Roman said, shaking his head in admiration. “A most astonishing woman, my dear. You don’t mind if I address you as ‘my
“Not him,” Agrippa agreed.
“So much if the poison was in the bottle. But if it was dropped into the cup, we have more possibilities—the priest, Phineas, the seneschal, Herod-Kophas, our cousin, the scribe, Joash, and that noble whore, Zipporah Basomen. Each of them held the cup for a moment; each of them had the opportunity. Well, whom do we accuse? Herod-Kophas? Why? What reason? Fifty others must die before he is in line for the throne. And if we accuse him, then we confess to the world that we murder each other. Who else? The scribe, Joash? He’s a Pharisee—we accuse him and split the nation in two again, Pharisees on one side, Sadducees on the other? And why? What would it profit him? Or the girl. Do we accuse her and set a large and powerful family of Jews against us? But where is her motive? And lastly—the priest, Phineas, whom we both despise. He’s lost his protector, his home, his hopes, his cushy post, and the bag of food he devours each day. Yes, we could find him and crucify him, and no one would complain very much—although I am sure he’s halfway to Jerusalem by now, whipping some poor horse to death. No, he had no motive.”
“Then who had a motive?” Agrippa asked.
“Only one of them,” Berenice said. “The Roman.”
“Surely you’re not serious.”
“Surely I am,” Berenice said. “It neither profits nor hinders him to have the king dead, but he sent us the wine, and he serves his master, Claudius.”
“Father’s friend?”
“You think father had friends?” Berenice smiled.
The following day, just before the funerary procession left for Jerusalem, Germanicus Latus payed a formal call on Berenice, explaining that circumstances did not permit his making the journey to Jerusalem, much as he desired to. “For the king was my dear and beloved friend—as he was of all Romans—a brilliant and interesting man.” Then Latus went on to say that he did not find the king’s daughter less interesting or unusual. “They say you are only sixteen. Is this possible?” he asked Berenice.
“It is possible,” Berenice smiled.
“I can hardly credit it. You will forgive me if I do not stress the matter of condolences. I don’t imagine that you were too upset when the king died.”
“He was my father,” Berenice replied evenly.
“Of course. Of course. And I would be the last to belittle the bonds of blood. Nevertheless—”
He smiled and mopped his bare skull with a kerchief. His face was round and innocent as a child’s, his dark eyes open and frank.
“Nevertheless—we attempt to understand each other.”
“I always attempt to understand any representative of Rome’s first citizen.”
“Very nicely put, that,” Latus nodded. “Hot here—I don’t know how you Galileans stand the heat of these coastal places. I much prefer your green hills.”
“Thank you,” Berenice smiled. “I too prefer the hills of Galilee to the coastal plain. But my father was here—”
“And where he was, his loyal daughter was,” Latus nodded.
“If you wish to think of it in that way.”
“Ah—yes, I suppose that I do. Your Latin is excellent, Queen Berenice.”
“That’s hardly surprising, since I spent a year in Rome as a child. Not that I remember too much, but the language is formed. I also had a Latin tutor as well as a Greek tutor.”
“Amazing,” Latus nodded, clasping his hands around his fat, protruding stomach. “Utterly amazing—the more so to such an ignoramus as myself. How many languages do you have, my dear?”
“Latin and Greek,” Berenice replied dutifully, “and of course my native tongue, Aramaic. I also speak a little Egyptian—the patois—and naturally Hebrew, our holy tongue, in which our sacred books are written.”
“Five languages,” the Roman said, shaking his head in admiration. “A most astonishing woman, my dear. You don’t mind if I address you as ‘my
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