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Authors: Howard Fast
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dear.’ I do hope you don’t mind. I am fully aware of your rank as queen of Chalcis and as the first princess of the ancient Hasmonean blood, but I am also fifty-three years old, and it is difficult for me not to think of a young girl of sixteen as my daughter. I have three daughters, you know.”
“And I have a husband your age, as you also know,” Berenice said engagingly. “So I do feel very comfortable with you, and I don’t mind at all if you call me ‘my dear,’ or any other term that might strike your fancy.”
“As I would a daughter.”
“Naturally,” Berenice nodded.
“And I talk to you as I would to a daughter. You see, if you were my daughter, I would have to ask you why you disposed of the beaker of wine so quickly? It might have provided an interesting test.”
“An accident.” Berenice brushed the matter aside, as of no importance.
“Oh, no, no, no. Hardly an accident, my dear. Do you really think that I murdered your father?”
“The whole idea is monstrous,” Berenice replied. “However, the captain of my father’s guard, Enoch Benaron, has a short temper and an even shorter store of intelligence. He prefers action, as most stupid men do—and—”
“And a Roman legate might have been mistakenly killed. That would have been unfortunate.”
“God help us, yes,” Berenice whispered.
“But to you, my dear,” Latus went on, “why should it mean anything to you, the queen of Chalcis? Rome would have punished this place. The legions would come and Roman justice would have come with them. But what skin off your back, if I may ask?”
“You forget that I am a Jew,” Berenice said quietly.
“No. Oh no. That is something I never forget. No Jew allows anyone else ever to forget who he is.”
“And a Hasmonean,” Berenice added, nettled and trying to put down the Roman without revealing her irritation.
“Of course—but a moment ago, I reminded you of that. I am becoming quite an expert at Gentile-Jewish diplomacy, don’t you think?”
“I hardly think one has to be an expert. We are plain folk.”
“Oh no!” Latus burst into laughter. “Plain folk indeed, my dear! Never. You are frauds. Plain—no, you are complex to the point of bewilderment. You are all romantics, filled with illusions, and quite as dangerous as people with illusions can be. You worship a God who does not exist but who dwells in a temple that is empty, and you make virtue out of what is unpleasant and sin out of what is pleasant—and sages out of sixteen-year-old children who bear an international reputation for immorality and wantonness and proceed to behave like combinations of vestal virgins and Latin tribunes, and so help me, you do confuse a simple Italian peasant like myself. You confuse me no end. But I am beginning to adore you, and that is quite a dreadful thing when it happens to a fat, bald man in his fifties. Perhaps because I am a Roman, and thereby a little warier than your husband, I intend to discourage this tendency in myself. Do you hate me because you believe that I killed your father?”
“I don’t know who killed my father.”
“Well, have it that way then.”
“No, I don’t hate you at all,” Berenice said. “As a matter of fact, I find you very charming. Would you do something for me?”
“I am at your service,” he cried.
“Would you tell me whether the emperor will confirm my brother, Agrippa, as king over all the Jews and over their lands?”
“Ah—” He spread his thick, hamlike hands. “If the Jewish succession could go to a woman, I might answer that more easily.”
“But it can go only to a man,” Berenice said.
“Who knows, my dear? This morning, I sent a messenger to Rome. It will take him ten or eleven days to go, as much to return—and time for the emperor to ponder the question. In a month, we will know. Meanwhile, your brother is as much king as anyone—and you—what are you, my dear?”
“I wonder,” Berenice said
“And I have a husband your age, as you also know,” Berenice said engagingly. “So I do feel very comfortable with you, and I don’t mind at all if you call me ‘my dear,’ or any other term that might strike your fancy.”
“As I would a daughter.”
“Naturally,” Berenice nodded.
“And I talk to you as I would to a daughter. You see, if you were my daughter, I would have to ask you why you disposed of the beaker of wine so quickly? It might have provided an interesting test.”
“An accident.” Berenice brushed the matter aside, as of no importance.
“Oh, no, no, no. Hardly an accident, my dear. Do you really think that I murdered your father?”
“The whole idea is monstrous,” Berenice replied. “However, the captain of my father’s guard, Enoch Benaron, has a short temper and an even shorter store of intelligence. He prefers action, as most stupid men do—and—”
“And a Roman legate might have been mistakenly killed. That would have been unfortunate.”
“God help us, yes,” Berenice whispered.
“But to you, my dear,” Latus went on, “why should it mean anything to you, the queen of Chalcis? Rome would have punished this place. The legions would come and Roman justice would have come with them. But what skin off your back, if I may ask?”
“You forget that I am a Jew,” Berenice said quietly.
“No. Oh no. That is something I never forget. No Jew allows anyone else ever to forget who he is.”
“And a Hasmonean,” Berenice added, nettled and trying to put down the Roman without revealing her irritation.
“Of course—but a moment ago, I reminded you of that. I am becoming quite an expert at Gentile-Jewish diplomacy, don’t you think?”
“I hardly think one has to be an expert. We are plain folk.”
“Oh no!” Latus burst into laughter. “Plain folk indeed, my dear! Never. You are frauds. Plain—no, you are complex to the point of bewilderment. You are all romantics, filled with illusions, and quite as dangerous as people with illusions can be. You worship a God who does not exist but who dwells in a temple that is empty, and you make virtue out of what is unpleasant and sin out of what is pleasant—and sages out of sixteen-year-old children who bear an international reputation for immorality and wantonness and proceed to behave like combinations of vestal virgins and Latin tribunes, and so help me, you do confuse a simple Italian peasant like myself. You confuse me no end. But I am beginning to adore you, and that is quite a dreadful thing when it happens to a fat, bald man in his fifties. Perhaps because I am a Roman, and thereby a little warier than your husband, I intend to discourage this tendency in myself. Do you hate me because you believe that I killed your father?”
“I don’t know who killed my father.”
“Well, have it that way then.”
“No, I don’t hate you at all,” Berenice said. “As a matter of fact, I find you very charming. Would you do something for me?”
“I am at your service,” he cried.
“Would you tell me whether the emperor will confirm my brother, Agrippa, as king over all the Jews and over their lands?”
“Ah—” He spread his thick, hamlike hands. “If the Jewish succession could go to a woman, I might answer that more easily.”
“But it can go only to a man,” Berenice said.
“Who knows, my dear? This morning, I sent a messenger to Rome. It will take him ten or eleven days to go, as much to return—and time for the emperor to ponder the question. In a month, we will know. Meanwhile, your brother is as much king as anyone—and you—what are you, my dear?”
“I wonder,” Berenice said
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