And what, he wondered, as he strode, rustling, towards the Silver Room, could three strangers, without credentials, one a merchant, have to tell him of such importance and urgency that Mariamne had seemed to persuade him to change his mind and receive them? That it was urgent and important he was sure. Only once had he acted against the inspiration which seemed to flow into him as he sat in that quiet, flower-filled room, and then the result had been regrettable.
As he crossed the shining tessellated floor upon which were portrayed the seasons of the year, and took his seat in the great silver chair under a purple canopy, his mind reverted to Parthia where there were scores of petty kingdoms, loosely knit, some of them chafing under the Parthian yoke. It could be that these men ‘from the East’ were emissaries of so secret a kind that they carried no credentials. He was known to be Caesar’s friend and an intriguer with skill and experience; somebody might have had the idea of making an approach to Rome through him. If so it was fortunate that Archelaus was about to go there and could be entrusted with a verbal message. And then, thinking of Archelaus, he was reminded of a tale the boy had brought back from his last visit. From somewhere farther away, eastward even of Parthia, some fellow, Pella, Pelli, Pello, no matter, had appealed to Augustus for help in regaining a throne he had some kind of claim to. Archelaus had recounted how Caesar had called for maps and studied them and then said, “The place is not even marked.. ..”
The three men were brought to the door and there left to make their own way towards him.
Certainly two of them came from some very distant place; their clothes were most outlandish.
There was an old man, frail and brittle as an autumn leaf wearing a curious black hat, like a pent roof, and a stained coat of quilted cotton cloth, with wide sleeves. He looked neither to right nor left as he entered and he was the first man, in Herod’s experience, to enter this room with the beaten silver panels on. the walls, and the beautiful floor, and not to show either admiration, envy, disapproval
or awe. He walked straight forward,moving swiftly, his eyes fixed upon Herod’s face. A king paying a visit to a king was the thought that flashed through Herod’s mind before he turned his attention upon the second man. He was younger, a man in his prime, just as freakishly clad, but with an air of arrogance. He showed more awareness of his surroundings; as he walked his glance took in the room and its furnishings, and Herod under the canopy, as though he were summing them all up. And then, into his eyes, very blue and bright, there came an expression which suddenly and sharply reminded Herod of Mariamne at her most scornful. This man walked with the gait of a man who spent more time in the saddle than on foot. The third Herod summed up and dismissed; black, emasculated, ‘well-to-do, typical freedman.
Melchior halted when he was within about six paces of the chair; the others took their places, one on each side. Melchior put his right hand into his left sleeve, his left in his right and made a slight, formal bow. Caspar, stiffly upright, raised his right hand in the desert horseman’s salute which Herod, the Idumean, recognised. The open palm, turned to face the one greeted, said, “See, I come in peace, unarmed’. Balthazar, very conscious that he was in a palace, in the presence of a king, and that he must do the talking, bowed his head and bent his knees as he was accustomed to do when entering the Lady’s room.
Herod, with the cordiality which endeared him to people who were not on personal or political grounds prejudiced against him, said:
“You wished to see me? What is your errand?”
Melchior put his hand on Balthazar’s sleeve.
“Briefly now. Just ask where the child is and the quickest way to get there.”
Herod leaned his hands on the elaborately wrought arms of the silver chair and said:
“Ask me yourself! Your Greek is like mine or near enough, learned from a book and not much used. Where do you come from?”
Pyangyong; but that does not matter. Where is the child?”
“What child?”
“The child whose horoscope I read, nine months and more ago. I am an astronomer. He is of ancient lineage, royal, and will be born, if he is not, as I fear, already born, no more than ten or twelve miles from where I stand. I assure you that it is of the utmost importance that I should have speech with his parents.”
Herod rapidly reviewed his family, his household. Two sons named Philip, Antipater, Antipas, Archelaus … secret liaisons? Ancient lineage? Had he overlooked some Asmodean princeling who had gone into hiding and spawned? He said, “There is no child here.”
“What did I tell you?” Melchior said, speaking to Balthazar but sharing his look of malice between him and Caspar. To Herod he said, forcing himself to courtesy: “We are sorry to have troubled you. It was a mistake. My friend here was under the delusion that the child would be born King of the Jews.”
“Nobody can be born to that title. I hold it by favour of Caesar Augustus, who will choose my successor.” And even as he said the words something clicked into place at the back of his mind. Ancient, royal line, King of the Jews.. ..
His attachment to the Jewish faith was purely formal and expedient; in public he kept the law, in public he observed the rites. Of Jewish history he was ignorant, and of Jewish literature. His mother had been a Jewess, but he’d spent no time with her; his father, a brilliant soldier and a shrewd politician, had been his hero, and from the moment that he was safe on a horse he had been his father’s companion. Mariamne, however, was as learned as any scribe, and she had often entertained him with stories; it was she who had told him about Esau and Jacob, about Solomon whose glory had stunned the Queen of Sheba, about Samson slaying a lion barehanded, and Baalam’s ass which had spoken with a human tongue. He had always welcomed such stories because Mariamne had related them in moments of friendliness.
What he remembered now was not a story and it had not been told in a friendly mood; it had been flung at him, in the middle of one of their quarrels, like a stone. Something about a Messiah, of the house of David, who would deliver the Jews from their enemies, ‘of whom you are
first and foremost!“Mariamne had said.
Melchior said, “If you will excuse us. Time is of importance, and we still have some distance to travel.”
“Wait,” Herod said.
“It is possible that I may be able to help you.”
Experts were handy. By this time the High Priest and his companions would have arrived, been received by Archelaus, and be waiting for their dinner. They would know all about the legend, the prophecy, as Mariamne had called it.
He was about to clap his hands and call and attract the attention of the guards when caution intervened. Mariamne again?
The priests were all sensible, hard-headed fellows, as professionally priests as he was professionally King; but you never knew; there might be one amongst them who was susceptible to Jewish myths, who might go out and talk, who might even see some way of turning this information to his own advantage. It would be far better to keep this trio and the priests apart.
There was another thing to consider, too; the High Priest’s dignity, the respect that he considered due to his office. He might very well already be offended at being received by Archelaus, instead of Herod himself; he would almost certainly be incensed to be sent for. Hating the High Priest, and all his works and ways, liking to annoy him as far as it was safe, Herod was never blind to the fact that the man had power.
Everywhere that the Romans went they liked to use the existing mechanics of government and they had recognised that to a very religious nation like the Jews the priesthood was a source of authority. Twice during his early reign Herod had asserted himself against a High Priest, and though he had survived, he had learned to be careful. Cold, formal, just-sufficient civility cost nothing.
“I shall not delay you long,” he said to Melchior, and rose to his feet and rustled away, his wily mind already busy with the question of how to extract information without giving any.
“Perhaps we have not, after all, wasted time,” Balthazar said. He spoke timidly, still feeling guilty about his .obstinacy over the gateway, and also deeply disappointed because nothing had happened. He had recognised the gateway as surely as he had recognised Melchior and Caspar, and the robe and the turban and the sandals. And he had seen the star, with which Melchior’s errand was involved. All the ingredients were now assembled and yet nothing had happened. And—with shame he admitted this—he was terribly hungry again.