Salome

by Joanna Courtney

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

An evocative, unputdownable novel about the infamous Salome. Discover the woman behind the myth, in this epic and opulent novel, perfect for fans of Jennifer Saint, Madeline Miller, Philippa Gregory and Alison Weir.
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A dutiful royal daughter.

At age fourteen, Princess Salome knows she will soon be ready for marriage - one that will satisfy the ambitions of her mother Herodias. But it is Herodias's own sudden remarriage that will change Salome's life in a way she did not expect.

A girl who loved to dance.

Uprooted to Judea, Salome finds herself in a land full of strange people - none more so than the prophet John 'the Baptiser', who condemns her mother and stepfather for their respective divorces. When John is imprisoned for inciting rebellion, Herodias forces Salome to ask for his head as a gift for her dancing.

A woman ready to fight.

Haunted by her part in John's death, Salome is a very different woman when, a year later, John's protégé, Jesus of Nazareth, begins to gain prominence with his anti-establishment teachings and, thanks in a large part to her own mother, meets a rebel's fate. Now Salome is prepared to stand up for what she believes in - whatever the cost.

Beautiful, brave and strong, it's time for Salome to redefine her story.

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Praise for Joanna Courtney:

'Exciting and immersive! A compelling story that crackles with intrigue, passion and humour' TRACY REES

'Beautifully researched, emotionally charged, elegantly told, this is a story to savour and enjoy' ANNE O'BRIEN

'A novel to savour, a story as rich as fine Roman wine' CAROL MCGRATH

Don't miss Cleopatra & Julius - the love story the world never knew - available now.

Release date: July 11, 2024

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 90000

Sample

Salome flinched back against the padded bench seat as a sun-browned hand hooked through the carriage window, all bone, sinew and paper-thin skin. The fingers groped for her, each one seemingly an independent creature trying to burrow into her royal flesh.

‘God bless you, Princess.’

The hoarse words were less exhortation, more bitter resentment, and Salome cringed away from the base need, and then hated herself for doing so. It was always the same when they came to Jerusalem – the city was a mixture of excitement, fascination and horror that swirled in her stomach and stuck to her skin.

Thankfully the carriage edged on, the driver cracking his whip to try and part the crowds cramming the narrow streets, and the hand was forced to withdraw. Salome looked to her father, Herod Boethus, sat on her far side, and he gave her a kindly grimace.

‘We’ll soon be there, Salome.’

‘If we were in the Herodian palace, we could have gone round the edge,’ Herodias, her mother, snapped from the opposite.

‘But we would have to share it with the Roman Governor,’ Boethus said mildly.

‘Not if all was right in the world.’

‘Is all ever right in the world?’

‘Perhaps not, but if everyone took that attitude it would be a hell of a lot worse. Ah, the Temple!’

Their carriage had drawn up outside the vast Temple complex at the heart of the Holy City and Herodias, thankfully distracted, leaned out of the window to take it in. Salome watched her, astonished. Her mother seemed oblivious to the pawing of the poor as she gazed up at the monumental structure. It was beautiful, Salome could see that, but it was also teeming with life.

From here they could only catch a glimpse inside through the huge Shoshan Gate but Salome knew exactly what was within. At the heart of the complex was the sacred Court of the Priests, holding the High Altar and Holy of Holies within which God dwelled. Surrounding it was the Court of the Israelites, which was beautiful, but she had only ever seen it from the balustrade of the adjacent Court of the Women, beyond which no female could pass. Something that annoyed Herodias no end.

The inner courtyards, however, were only used for full worship and most of the time everyone swilled around in the vast Court of the Gentiles that surrounded the Temple proper on all sides. There they could meet friends, listen to preachers and buy Temple shekels, sacrifices and all manner of holy goods from the myriad stall holders set up below the central steps. The courtyard was open to all and large enough to take at least ten thousand people, and at Pesach it often had at least that many crammed into its colonnaded walls.

Through the wide-open gates, Salome could see that already people were fighting for the holy space and the air was rent with pitiful bleating as thousands of lambs were driven in from every direction, confused and disorientated. Every Jewish family was required by law to travel to Jerusalem for the Pesach festival and every one had to sacrifice a lamb or, if they were really poor, a dove, to give thanks for the great covenant made between Moses and God when He sent the prophet to lead the Jews out of slavery and into the Promised Land.

It was a fine tradition that, in times past, had kept the farming people in touch with one another at least once a year, but these days, with the Holy Land so populated, it turned Jerusalem into a charnel house. Already Salome was dreading the Sabbath when the Temple ran with the blood of all these young animals and people staggered through the streets carrying their bleeding carcasses home to eat. She hated seeing the high priests with their white robes drenched in blood and hearing the death cries fill the air from dawn till dusk. And she worried – though obviously she wouldn’t ever say as much out loud – about the God that required this mass killing.

‘Isn’t it magnificent!’

Herodias had no such qualms. It fascinated Salome every year to see her mother, withdrawn and sullen on their quiet estates near coastal Joppa, come alive when they reached Jerusalem, and now that, newly turned fourteen, Salome was becoming a woman herself, it was even more intriguing. Her mother seemed to feed off the visceral energy of the crowds, to draw strength from the very stones of the city and to relish the parade of ceremonies and feasts that filled Holy Week. She was a beautiful woman, even past her fortieth year, but in Jerusalem that beauty radiated, as if she were physically taller and more vigorous just from drawing in the Temple air.

‘Magnificent,’ Boethus agreed.

Herodias tutted.

‘Stop repeating me, husband. Be a man not an echo.’

‘But you speak so well, wife, that you deserve echoing.’

Herodias’ eyes narrowed.

‘What I deserve is a man who can stand up and be counted, a man who can lead – who can rule.’

Salome bit her lip. It always got round to this sooner or later, as if Herodias stored up all her anger in the countryside and Jerusalem ripped the lid off it. It was unusual, however, for her to burst before they’d even reached the palace.

‘Is that the High Priest?’ Salome cried hastily, pointing to where, high up on the parapets that ran around the Inner Courtyards, a man had emerged from the beautiful Gate of Susa in a jewel-encrusted gown that sparkled in the midday glare.

‘Where?’ Herodias was thankfully distracted again. ‘Oh! It is, yes. Doesn’t Caiaphas look fine? I’m so glad he’s tall. The robes show to much better advantage on a larger man. Annas was very wise, but he didn’t cut such an imposing figure.’

‘That’s important in a priest, is it?’ Boethus asked.

‘Of course it is. The people want to be able to look up to their leader, as you would know if you had even a shred of leadership quality in your feeble bones.’

Salome rolled her eyes. Sometimes her father really did bring it on himself. Herod Boethus had been sole heir to Herod the Great when he’d married Herodias twenty-three years ago. The once-imposing king had, however, descended into paranoia in his final years and had several of his many sons executed for supposedly plotting against him. In the killing spree, Boethus had only escaped with his life by agreeing to retire as a private citizen. It seemed to Salome that it was a deal that had suited Boethus perfectly, as he was never happier than when overseeing his farm, tending his gardens or playing music in his sprawling villa, but it had not suited his wife at all. Herodias was not a woman made for private living.

Salome shifted uncomfortably as more hands clawed their way into the royal carriage. The palace was barely fifty steps west, but it would take hours to get there at this rate. She would willingly get out and walk, save that she feared the press of people. Jerusalem at Pesach was rarely more than half a step from a riot and with so many stones set loose from the roads by the crowds, there were always weapons on hand if something set them off.

She clasped her fingers in her lap and prayed for patience but now Boethus was pulling a leather pouch from his travelling bag and drawing out a handful of coins. He winked at Salome as he drew back the curtain and, with surprising strength, flung them onto the long steps leading up to the Shoshan Gate. They hit the stones with loud chinks and the scramble was instant. The road emptied before them as people fell onto each other in the rush to grab at the silver and, with a crack of his whip, the driver was able to leap forward.

‘Well done, Father,’ Salome cried.

‘About time,’ Herodias said begrudgingly but Salome saw a small smile cross her lips as they turned the corner and, finally, drew up outside the Hasmonean Palace.

It was not as new or as large as the Herodian one, built along the west wall by Herod the Great at the same time as the Temple thirty years ago, and Herodias was always complaining about that, but Salome preferred it. It was deeper into the city, built in a more elegant style and far richer in history.

‘How lovely to be back in the home of your ancestors, Mother,’ she said, as the guards rushed to open the gates and let them in, beating back any peasants foolish enough to try and force their way through.

‘True Jews,’ Herodias purred. ‘Brought up in the Holy Land and prepared to stand and defend it against outsiders instead of welcoming them in and handing them our finest palaces.’

‘This is the finest palace, Mother.’

‘No Roman should have any palace here. Ignorant boors. They don’t deserve one inch of this land, let alone the best inches, and if we had decent rulers they’d be booted back to Italia where they belong.’

‘It was Herod the Great, I believe, who did a deal with the Romans to keep control of Judea,’ Boethus said.

‘I know! Not so great if you ask me – though he, at least, was strong enough to keep the title of king, unlike any of you lot. Talking of which, there’s Philip.’

A strange gleam came into Herodias’ eyes as she spotted her Uncle Philip, which surprised Salome as Herodias was usually railing against him for ‘hiding’ in his tetrarchy of Trachonitis, up in the North-Eastern corner of the Holy Land. The only one of Herod the Great’s heirs that Herodias ever seemed to have time for was Herod Antipas, the eldest. Antipas was ruler of Galilee and Perea and apparently building shining cities on the lush sea, but he was still only a tetrarch. Ever since Archelaus, the eldest brother, had blown his inheritance of Judea with terrible management, all-but inviting the Romans to turn it into a full Roman province, they had all been robbed of the title of king.

Tetrarch was a shadow of a title in comparison – at least in Herodias’ book. Now, though, she was rushing over to Philip, clasping his hands and kissing his cheeks with the sort of eagerness she usually saved only for foreign visitors who might be able to do her a favour. Salome watched curiously. Uncle Philip did not seem especially surprised by this exuberance from his dour niece and she wondered what on earth her mother was plotting. But now a fine horse was galloping into the palace courtyard and Salome felt her blood rush to her face as she recognised the rider.

Aristobulus, her cousin and just about the only other family member under twenty, was riding high on a fine chestnut stallion. It was frothing at the mouth, as if it had been ridden hard and Ari himself was flushed from exertion, his dark curls shining with sweat and his hose clinging to his thighs. He looked, quite simply, magnificent. Her mother might rave over the architecture of the Temple and the Hasmonean palace, but Salome could gaze on Ari all day long. Not that she would of course. That would be indecorous. And embarrassing. And . . .

‘Salome! Are you going to lurk in that carriage all afternoon?’

‘Ari! Of course not. I was just, er . . .’

‘Helping her old father down,’ Boethus supplied, giving her arm a little squeeze and making a show of clambering down with her assistance.

‘Always kind,’ Ari said.

Salome smiled up at him.

‘I know my duty.’

‘You are an excellent daughter.’

‘And will make an excellent wife,’ Boethus said, then wandered off leaving Salome spluttering for something cogent to say.

She might, at fourteen, be allowed to marry, but her mother had always said she did not want to see her wed too early, so this sudden comment threw her and she wasn’t quite sure what to do with herself.

‘You look well, Salome,’ Ari said. ‘You’ve grown.’

Salome looked down, increasingly flustered. She had grown in the last year, and not just upwards. Her body had curved at both hips and breast and she was having to adjust to this new fleshliness to her previously lithe form. Nothing fitted her any more and she’d found herself cooped up with dressmakers for ages. Herodias was delighted and had ordered adult-length gowns with figure-hugging bodices that made her feel very uncomfortable, though, looking at Ari’s eyes as he took her in now, she could see perhaps her mother had, for once, been right.

The main issue was that this new form had changed the way her body moved. Dancing was her favourite pastime but with her new figure she was forever losing her balance when she tried her previous moves. Not that she could say that to her gorgeous cousin.

‘I do feel older,’ she managed eventually.

‘You look older. And more beautiful.’

‘I do?’ she squeaked.

Now it was Ari’s turn to look flustered.

‘Jerusalem seems busier than ever this year,’ he said, scuffing the heel of his riding boot against the cobbles.

‘Doesn’t it?’ Salome agreed, snatching at this safer topic. ‘It feels unsettled too.’

‘It always does but, yes, this year feels close. The new governor arrived yesterday and people never like to be reminded we’re under a foreign heel.’

‘Have you met him?’

‘Pontius Pilate? Not yet, but I hear we’re all invited to dine with him tonight.’

Salome groaned.

‘In the Herodian palace? Mother will love that.’

Ari rubbed his hands.

‘Sparks always fly with your mother around.’

‘I know. It’s awful.’

‘It’s fantastic. At least she’s prepared to say what everyone else is thinking.’

‘And are too diplomatic to speak out loud.’

‘Cowardice.’

‘Or wisdom. The Romans have all the power, Ari.’

‘For now. Oh, but look, your mother wants you.’

‘She does?’ Salome looked around, surprised. Her mother was usually glad to be shot of her in the city, where there were so many more interesting people to talk to but, sure enough, Herodias was beckoning her over. ‘I’d better go.’

‘You better had. But, hey, sit with me at dinner, Lola?’

Salome flushed. Only her father and Ari ever called her that. She liked it.

‘If I can,’ she agreed, shooting him another smile and heading across to her mother, remembering just in time to pick up her newly-long skirts and avoid sprawling at his feet.

‘Can I help you, Mother?’ she asked.

Herodias took her arm – another surprise.

‘You can, daughter. We need to go and unpack your gowns and summon the maids. I want you looking at your finest this evening.’

‘To meet the new governor?’

Herodias sniffed grandly.

‘To hell with the governor. No, for your husband.’

‘What?!’

Herodias hustled her up the west staircase towards their rooms.

‘Decorum, Salome! You’re a woman now – and soon to be a married one.’

‘To whom, Mother?’

‘We won’t rush it of course, just like I always promised you. We’ll have a decent betrothal period. We don’t want any unwarranted gossip. Not that there will be, I’m sure, with such a fine man.’

‘Who is he?’

‘And with such good prospects.’ She hustled Salome into her own room and, closing the door, clasped her shoulders with a rare smile. ‘You’ve done well to grow so pretty, Salome. It’s got you noticed.’

Salome remembered Ari’s eyes on her new curves and felt her heart beat a little faster.

Sit with me at dinner, Lola. Oh, what a husband!

‘Not that you wouldn’t have been noticed anyway, with my pedigree,’ Herodias was going on.

‘And father’s,’ she reminded her.

Herodias waved this away.

‘I am the Hasmonean. I am the granddaughter of Mariamne. I am the true Jew in this family – and you, of course. That’s highly desirable, Salome, but, even so, it helps to have other charms. Men are very shallow, as you’ll find out all too soon.’

‘With whom, Mother?!’

Herodias blinked.

‘Why with your new husband, of course. With Philip.’

‘Philip? Your Uncle Philip?!’

Herodias clapped.

‘That’s the one. My rich Uncle Philip, with his lovely tetrarchy of Trachonitis.’

‘That you despise because it’s miles away from Jerusalem? And full of pagans?’

‘That I admire greatly for its fertility, riches and stability. Philip is a good man, Salome.’

That much was true. Philip was a good, kind, honest man. But . . .

‘He’s fifty-two, Mother.’

‘I know,’ Herodias said robustly. ‘Perfect. Take it from me, daughter, you can’t beat a husband who’s close to the grave. It gives you options.’

Salome gaped at her.

‘But, Mother, that’s so old. How can I ever love him?’

‘Love?!’ Herodias shrieked. ‘This isn’t about love, child. Love is for people who have no land. You are a Princess, a member of the royal household. Your marriage will be about respect, ambition, authority. It will be about shared achievements and power and that, believe me, is worth far more than love.’

‘But . . .’

‘No buts. Listen to me, Salome. As you know, Herod the Great’s kingdom was badly splintered when he died, but there is scope to bring it together again. One man should rule the whole Holy Land, from Galilee and Trachonitis in the north, down to Judea and Perea in the south.’

‘Or one woman . . .?’ Salome teased.

‘If only,’ Herodias snapped. ‘But that perfect solution is sadly far out of reach so we must be practical. Herod’s only grandsons – my brothers – are from Mariamne’s line.’

‘Of which you are very proud . . .?’

Herodias’ eyes narrowed.

‘Of which I am, rightly, very proud. However, as you know, Herod fell out with Mariamne.’

Salome gave a low laugh at her mother’s understatement. Herod the Great had had the beautiful Mariamne – his wife and supposed true love – executed on an uhinged suspicion of both adultery and plotting to kill him.

‘Concentrate, Salome,’ Herodias urged, ‘for I have thought about this most carefully. Were you to marry one of Herod’s grandsons, say . . . Aristobulus,’ Salome’s breath caught but Herodias was already shaking her head, ‘any claim by your son would come second to all three of my own brothers – of Mariamne’s line. Were you, however, to bring forth a son born of one of Herod the Great’s own sons – like Philip – he would have the highest possible claim.’

‘But, Mother,’ Salome protested, trying to think this through. It seemed that in order to produce an heir to a splintered throne, she had to marry a wrinkled old man instead of a strong, fit, funny, young one. ‘I don’t think I want—’

‘It is done,’ Herodias snapped. ‘And you will be glad of it.’

Salome sank onto her stool, defeated. She had long known that her marriage would be for dynastic reasons but had harboured hopes that Ari, by far the finest formed of the Herodians, might fulfil those. Her mother had calculated more precisely, however, and she would not, it seemed, be sitting next to Ari at dinner tonight. Jerusalem pressed hard upon her once more.

Herodias watched all eyes turn as Salome stepped up to the top of the central staircase, and smiled in satisfaction. She looked magnificent. The hair had taken forever, of course, and goodness the girl had complained about the uplift on that bodice, but it had been worth it. She looked every inch the princess. She wasn’t happy, Herodias knew, and she understood that, really she did. She’d seen the way her daughter chatted with her cousin and, God bless her, any woman would rather have that fine-looking specimen than Philip, who’d been handsome enough in his time but was now, even she had to admit, rather wrinkled and worn. It was tough, but that was life as a royal. She should know. She’d married Boethus when he was both handsome and with prospects, and look where that had got her – life on a bloody farm.

Herod Philip was their best chance of producing a direct heir to Herod the Great. Besides, he had a fine tetrarchy, even if it was in the north, whereas Ari had little more than a commission in the Jewish army. The last thing Salome needed was to trek around after a garrison, even if it did mean getting that young man in her bed at night. At least she wouldn’t know what she was missing, Herodias reminded herself, and there was no way Philip would last more than ten years, especially if Salome got his pulse racing. All the girl needed was long enough to produce a son and then she’d be able to move on to something more suited to her personal tastes. Options, that’s what this match offered her daughter – money, power and options. She should be grateful.

She avoided Boethus’ eye as she took his arm to walk down the stairs behind their daughter. He doted on Salome and wasn’t convinced about this match with his half-brother. He’d drivelled on about her ‘happiness’ but as usual, in the end, he’d gone with her wishes. He was such a sap. Still, Philip was waiting at the bottom of the stairs and if his legs were a little bandy and his hair rather thin, at least his clothes were fine and his bearing proud. Salome, to her credit, accepted his arm graciously and managed to avoid looking left to her young cousin, who was simmering in a most becoming manner. It was hard but it was life, and the sooner Salome learned that the better.

Take tonight, for example. They ought to be able to celebrate this happy betrothal in the comfort of their own palace but, oh no, they’d been summoned by the pompous Roman governor. ‘Invited’ Boethus had called it but she knew the Romans and this was definitely a summons. No doubt the blasted man would be lording it over them, parking his bony Roman arse on their ancestral throne and trying to impose his boorish Roman rules on their far more nuanced, cultured society. It was nonsense. Moses had brought the Jews to the Promised Land several thousand years before the first Romans were being suckled by wolves, or however the ridiculous story went, and now just because they had bigger boots and more swords, they were lording it over them. Well, it wouldn’t last. It never did. And if she had anything to do with it, they’d be out of here sooner rather than later.

It was time Boethus came out of ‘private life’ and stepped up to rule. Judea was the heart of the Jewish nation and it would surely not take much to oust this new governor and get the kingdom reinstalled. Caiaphas would help and the whole of the Sanhedrin – the Jewish council. It might take a little time, but they could make it happen if they focused. This betrothal was just the start. Draw the tetrarchies under one tightly linked family, wait for this new governor to trip up and strike!

Of course, there was the small issue that Boethus didn’t actually want to come out of the countryside . . .

Herodias shook it away. He was a Herod and couldn’t choose his destiny any more than Salome could. She looked around as the carriages drew up to take them to the governor. Herod Antipas and his wife weren’t here yet – something about preachers blocking the road from Galilee – and she’d hoped that would get them all out of this dinner. Yet word had come that he was close and would join them at the Herodian palace shortly, so it seemed there was little for it but to step into the carriage and go.

At least it would be quieter in the city now, with the peasants up on the Mount of Olives, erecting their rough little tents for the week. She could hear them hammering pegs into the hard ground and calling to each other in their coarse accents, could smell the smoke of their fires and the grease of their cooking pots. It must be a curious life, all bundled in together, but they seemed to like it. They certainly had enough children, so the lack of privacy clearly didn’t bother them.

Herodias clutched briefly at her own belly as the carriages set off. It seemed unfair, really, that Perean peasants could churn out endless kids they could barely afford to feed, whilst Herodias’ royal belly had allowed three boys to wither within before finally producing Salome. She felt a stab of pain, as deep and real as those three dark losses, and for a moment longed to curl up in bed and miss this hard night ahead. But where would that get her? Perhaps losing those three princes had been God’s way of telling her that she was strong enough to do the job alone? Perhaps it was His way of telling her not to rely on men? Certainly, there was no point in thinking it anything else or she might as well just give up now, get down on her knees before this Roman governor and suck his . . .

‘Herodias!’

She jumped and looked to her husband.

‘What?’

‘Everyone is waiting for us.’

She blinked and looked around. They’d arrived at the Herodian palace and the rest of the family was hovering uncertainly in the courtyard. Three red and gold guards stood outside the door, showing no sign of offering a welcome, and clearly someone was going to have to actually knock on the damned door. Typical Roman politeness.

Gathering her skirts, she swept out of the carriage and straight up the steps. The guards stood to attention and she looked down on them, thankful for the large wooden soles she always wore on her shoes – a little height gave a woman so much more authority and no one should be looking beneath her skirts to see from whence it came.

‘I am Herodias, Hasmonean Princess and Lady of Judea.’ It wasn’t strictly speaking her title but she’d found that if she said it with enough authority people rarely questioned her. And, of course, she should be Queen of Judea, as promised at her betrothal. She stared down the guards. ‘My family and I are, I believe, summon . . . invited for dinner with the governor.’

The guards looked to one another.

‘That’s correct,’ the eldest of them said eventually. ‘But you are early.’

‘Early?!’

‘Pontius Pilate has not yet finished the business of the day.’

Herodias gaped at him, astounded at the insolence.

‘He issued the invitation. We would have been quite happy not to come but if he is so tardy in running his affairs, the least you can do is show us in to wait in comfort.’

They looked to one another again.

‘We’ve had no such orders, my lady.’

Herodias stamped her foot.

‘Then go and get them.’

The guards shifted, the rest of the Herods, below, did the same. Herodias groaned but then, praise God, a new voice barked: ‘You heard the lady – jump to it!’

The imposing figure of Herod Antipas was striding into the courtyard and the guards bowed low. One of them shuffled through the door whilst the others tried desperately to look anywhere but at the new arrival. Antipas took the steps two at a time to grasp Herodias’ hand, bow low over it and drop a kiss onto the back. Her skin tingled.

‘Antipas! Thank the Lord someone with a few guts has turned up.’

He laughed.

‘I know Romans, Herodias. They need plain speaking and simple instruction. Now, here, please, take a seat.’ He swept off his cloak and placed it across a low wall for her to sit upon. ‘Are you well? You look well.’

He stood solicitously over her, chatting as if they were at the finest drinks party, and, despite the ridiculousness of the situation, she felt herself swell with his attentions. Antipas, son of Herod’s fourth wife, was half-brother to both Boethus, son of his third, and Philip, son of his fifth. Boethus was older but, when retiring from public life, had also ceded the position as head of the family to Antipas. Herodias had to say that it suited him far better.

He wasn’t especially tall – in fact, in her wooden soles he was only just level with her – but he was broad and fit and carried himself with a zest missing from her own husband, who only truly came to life when playing his damned lyre or cutting a bunch of roses. Antipas, in contrast, spoke with ease and grace and looked deep into her eyes when he did so. Very deep actually. She felt something pulse in parts of herself that had only offered pain in recent years, and fought to keep her chin high and back straight.

‘You’ve had a tough journey, my lord?’

‘As always. Galilee prospers, you know, which is excellent save for the fact that prosperity brings people and people clog the roads. They like to see me and I don’t want to deny them that privilege, so it necessarily takes time to get anywhere.’

‘You have come on horseback.’

‘As you see. I find a carriage so confining.’

‘Me too! But Boethus says it is undignified for a lady to enter the city on horseback.’

‘Surely that depends on the lady.’

Herodias prayed she wasn’t blushing too deeply; it was very hot in this stuffy courtyard. When would the damned Roman let them in?

‘Does your wife ride?’

He shook his head.

‘She is, sadly, too ill to travel at the moment. And, besides, she does not like horses. Do you?’

‘I love them. Such noble creatures.’

‘Powerful too,’ he said, low-voiced.

‘And fast.’

‘You like it fast?’

This conversation was getting away with her but, oh, it was fun. All Boethus ever wanted to talk about was his boring old plants and she couldn’t remember the last time he’d come to her bed. Not that Antipas would come to her bed, obviously. Not that she’d let him.

‘I like it fast,’ she heard herself confirm and was thankfully stopped from adding ‘and hard’ by the return of the guard.

‘Enter.’

‘Enter, please,’ Antipas thundered. ‘You are not in Rome now, ignoramus.’

‘Enter, please,’ the guard muttered, throwing back the door and pressing himself against it to let Antipas through. Antipas took his time, offering Herodias his arm to escort her inside. Herodias glanced back to Boethus but he was hovering uselessly behind Salome and Philip and, really, what did it matter? They were all family and it was important that she made an impression on this wretched new governor, which was far more likely to happen on Antipas’ strong arm than B