Chapter Six
C
rashing against palace wall, liquid forming explosive patterns on stone, a wine goblet disintegrated into a thousand shards. The chief priest and other members of the Sanhedrin cowered. Slaves stood immobile, invisible, which was the way they wanted it. Filling his hands with folds of silk drapes, he yanked them from the wall, cascading around his feet soiled in spilled wine. Screaming incomprehensible epithets against the Magi, against God, against anything and anyone that entered his enraged mind. Spittle formed at the corners of his mouth. Eyes bulged. Veins protruded. Sweat flowed. Herod the Great succumbed to the madness of rage.
“Sons of swine!” he screamed. “Dog vomit! Ass droppings!” He railed on. His mind searched in futility for the vilest names he could conceive. His vitriolic rampage had no boundary. He could think of nothing that would sate his hurt; that would absolve the insult. At length he fell silent, sitting on his throne, black clouds brooding in his eyes. No one spoke. No one moved. No one attempted to comfort him in the fear that he might suddenly resume venting his spleen. Nothing good could come of this. Herod was a martinet of ungodly adolescent passions. Blood would be shed.
“Leave me.” It was a subdued command, but a royal command nonetheless. The priests, his advisors, the slaves all left him alone. Herod brooded darkly. Hours paraded with little pomp and ceremony into the night all the way to the first gray light of dawn. The king could not sleep. His temples pounded with scheming outrage. His nostrils dilated, went dry and sent him into spasms of sneezing. His anxiety knew no respite. He shouted and his personal aide appeared.
“Fetch me the Captain of the Guard.” His eyes were red, but not from weeping. His voice low, even, malicious. “Fetch him out of bed. Fetch him from the joint of his bitch’s thighs! Fetch him before me immediately! Fetch him now!” The aging king, nearing 70, labored breathing. The servant left quickly.
