me. Trying to cover up my giggle with a cough, I spattered onion sauce onto the front of the borrowed yellow silk.
Herodias rolled her eyes. She said laughingly to Procula, the Governor’s wife, “I’d thought my daughter was old enough to attend your dinner, but it seems I misjudged. Look how she’s spoiled the
stola
I let her borrow! And it isn’t pleasant for you to watch such bad table manners. I apologize for her.”
Procula murmured something polite, but I wanted to vanish. Just a short while ago, I’d been transformed into a woman. I’d seen my beauty in the eyes of everyone who looked at me. Now I was a clumsy, overgrown child again. Ducking my head, I wished I’d stayed back in my room with Gundi. Although wasn’t Gundi to blame? She’d not only sneaked Herodias’s clothes and jewelry for me, but filled my head with her nonsense about Aphrodite.
It seemed as if that embarrassing moment went on forever, but finally the servers cleared the platters of quail and offered fruit and pastries. Even better, dancers in bead-fringed costumes leaped into the hall, taking attention from me. As I relaxed a bit, I swayed to the music, remembering how sweet it was to be transported in the sacred dances at the Temple of Diana.
These entertainers were surefooted and graceful, and the swinging beads accented their movements. But they didn’t look transported any more than the slaves who’d served the dinner. By their expressions, the dancers might as well have been passing platters of baked fish.
“Huh.” To Herodias, Antipas made a scornful noise under his breath. “These are the same entertainers Pilate hired the last time I came through Caesarea. He could do better—if he knew what ‘better’ was.”
“Few men have your discerning taste in the arts, my lord,” said Herodias.
“Not Romans, anyway,” agreed Antipas as a slave refilled his wine goblet. “They like to think they invented civilization when all they really invented is good roads and good toilets.”
Herodias, trilling her musical laugh, pressed Antipas’s arm. I glanced uneasily at the Roman Governor. Pilate, clapping in time to the music, seemed to have missed this jab, but his wife squinted at us suspiciously. Antipas and Herodias beamed back at her like grateful guests.
Later, back in my room, Gundi was eager to hear about the dinner. “Was Lady Herodias wearing my hair?”
“What nonsense are you talking?” Gundi’s knot of sand-colored, gray-streaked hair had been on her own head all evening. And why would Herodias want to wear it, anyway?
“You didn’t know?” asked Gundi. “That’s why she bought me years ago—for my hair as yellow as beaten flax. She had it sheared off and made into a wig. Then, when she was expecting you, she kept me to be your nursemaid. Oh, yes, that blond wig is my hair.”
I was amazed. Why didn’t I know this? Of course, ever since I’d been old enough to notice the color of my nursemaid’s hair, it had been grayish. It was hard to imagine a young, really blond Gundi.
“For a year or more,” Gundi went on as she unpinned my
stola,
“I was so ashamed, going about with cropped hair. But I made great sport for her ladyship.” There was a harsh note in her voice. “Once, at the baths with her friends, she pulled off my head scarf and pretended to think I was a man. ‘A man sneaked into the women’s baths!’ she shouted, and they all laughed.”
I stared at Gundi, thinking of the grudge my nursemaid had hidden all these years. But quickly Gundi put on the false smile with which slaves cover up their feelings. “No matter,” she said cheerily. Loosening the silk cord of my
stola,
she helped me undress. “Was Cupid busy for you this evening? Who did he pierce with his arrows of love?”
“Never mind Cupid—Herodias was not pleased with me!” I grabbed the
stola
before she could fold it up. “Look—
onion sauce.
” I added, “She made me take her jewelry off as soon as we were
Herodias rolled her eyes. She said laughingly to Procula, the Governor’s wife, “I’d thought my daughter was old enough to attend your dinner, but it seems I misjudged. Look how she’s spoiled the
stola
I let her borrow! And it isn’t pleasant for you to watch such bad table manners. I apologize for her.”
Procula murmured something polite, but I wanted to vanish. Just a short while ago, I’d been transformed into a woman. I’d seen my beauty in the eyes of everyone who looked at me. Now I was a clumsy, overgrown child again. Ducking my head, I wished I’d stayed back in my room with Gundi. Although wasn’t Gundi to blame? She’d not only sneaked Herodias’s clothes and jewelry for me, but filled my head with her nonsense about Aphrodite.
It seemed as if that embarrassing moment went on forever, but finally the servers cleared the platters of quail and offered fruit and pastries. Even better, dancers in bead-fringed costumes leaped into the hall, taking attention from me. As I relaxed a bit, I swayed to the music, remembering how sweet it was to be transported in the sacred dances at the Temple of Diana.
These entertainers were surefooted and graceful, and the swinging beads accented their movements. But they didn’t look transported any more than the slaves who’d served the dinner. By their expressions, the dancers might as well have been passing platters of baked fish.
“Huh.” To Herodias, Antipas made a scornful noise under his breath. “These are the same entertainers Pilate hired the last time I came through Caesarea. He could do better—if he knew what ‘better’ was.”
“Few men have your discerning taste in the arts, my lord,” said Herodias.
“Not Romans, anyway,” agreed Antipas as a slave refilled his wine goblet. “They like to think they invented civilization when all they really invented is good roads and good toilets.”
Herodias, trilling her musical laugh, pressed Antipas’s arm. I glanced uneasily at the Roman Governor. Pilate, clapping in time to the music, seemed to have missed this jab, but his wife squinted at us suspiciously. Antipas and Herodias beamed back at her like grateful guests.
Later, back in my room, Gundi was eager to hear about the dinner. “Was Lady Herodias wearing my hair?”
“What nonsense are you talking?” Gundi’s knot of sand-colored, gray-streaked hair had been on her own head all evening. And why would Herodias want to wear it, anyway?
“You didn’t know?” asked Gundi. “That’s why she bought me years ago—for my hair as yellow as beaten flax. She had it sheared off and made into a wig. Then, when she was expecting you, she kept me to be your nursemaid. Oh, yes, that blond wig is my hair.”
I was amazed. Why didn’t I know this? Of course, ever since I’d been old enough to notice the color of my nursemaid’s hair, it had been grayish. It was hard to imagine a young, really blond Gundi.
“For a year or more,” Gundi went on as she unpinned my
stola,
“I was so ashamed, going about with cropped hair. But I made great sport for her ladyship.” There was a harsh note in her voice. “Once, at the baths with her friends, she pulled off my head scarf and pretended to think I was a man. ‘A man sneaked into the women’s baths!’ she shouted, and they all laughed.”
I stared at Gundi, thinking of the grudge my nursemaid had hidden all these years. But quickly Gundi put on the false smile with which slaves cover up their feelings. “No matter,” she said cheerily. Loosening the silk cord of my
stola,
she helped me undress. “Was Cupid busy for you this evening? Who did he pierce with his arrows of love?”
“Never mind Cupid—Herodias was not pleased with me!” I grabbed the
stola
before she could fold it up. “Look—
onion sauce.
” I added, “She made me take her jewelry off as soon as we were
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