H
erod’s friends reclined about the tables their bodies still warm and sweating from the steaming water of the baths they’d spent the afternoon enjoying. These were high captains and many of the chief politicians of Galilee, most of them Romans. They felt privileged to be here, invited to celebrate the Tetrarch’s birthday. When Herod gave a party, one could expect wondrous and unexpected pleasures. The hot baths followed by feasting were powerful tools in the hands of someone like Herod Antipas. He had not his father’s penchant for unilateral control, nor would that kind of power ever again be conferred upon a provincial king. But he knew how to play the game. He knew how to get what he wanted from Rome. The pretext of his birthday celebration was perfect for such political purposes. Before these men left, he considered, his power in Galilee and perhaps beyond would be consolidated. And they were his “friends,” as much as anyone in his position could possess friends. They at least lent the appearance that they supported and endorsed him. After all, Caesar was far away and Herod could offer, well, amenities.
An attendant appeared who approached the Tetrarch and whispered in his ear as he filled his mouth with a large, succulent date. Thereupon he smiled and clapped his hands for attention. “Friends,” he exclaimed, “I have just been advised that my wife has prepared a gift for my birthday. May I present to you Salome, the flower of all Israel . . .
Another cymbal loud enough to assault the ears, sounded, followed instantly by wild beating drums. Entering the room from both sides, two lines of dark skinned women moved rapidly and gracefully into a circle, pulsing to the music of drums and bells. After a moment of stunning pageantry, just enough to accentuate anticipation, the drums ceased creating a dramatic pause. Suddenly, the brown maidens kneeled and raised dark swaying arms. Salome arose from the center, appearing as if from nowhere, a vision of shimmering sensuality her white flesh giving the appearance of an emerging blossom.
Her hips and legs were draped with translucent blue silk. A bright gold cluster of olive leaves barely covering the convergence of her thighs hung in place by a wisp of gold chain. A serpentine line of gold beads encrusted with emeralds encircled her breasts and a large sapphire nested in her navel. Her silken black hair laced with gold filigree. The illusion of nakedness gave a fluidity to her hips punctuating each soft throb from a drum that broke a poignant silence. Herod and the men in the room gasped. Then a weak murmur of approval.
She danced. Her movements rose and fell with the thumping of the drums, inviting a feast for aroused eyes; building to crescendo, then falling back into the barest of audibility. Slowly and purposely she danced to each man, pausing, teasing, taunting. Finally, the girl approached Herod’s table. Reclining on the table before him she seized his goblet of wine and drizzled the wine strategically over her body and with her eyes inviting him to drink. Breathless, Herod leaned toward her.
“Stop!” It was the voice of Herodias, commanding, insistent. The girl, as if to tease again, swung her slender legs slowly from the table. The drums ceased. “Would my husband take this child in front of the elite of Rome?” Herodias herself seemed dressed to dance. She was a picture of mature sensuality. “Would he prefer an untested girl to seasoned experience?” she thought with contempt.
In his drunken stupor, Herod was apoplectic. “What do you want?” he said to Herodias. “What are you doing? I know you seek something of this.”
“It is not I you should reward, my husband.” Salome stepped forward moving with deliberation. Each step titillating. It had its effect. Despite Herod’s sense of being manipulated, he was helpless before this display of sexual promise. Herodias gestured to the other dancers who then stood. In a practiced move each dancer touched the place where their costumes were fastened, swayed their bodies gently and their clothing fell to their feet. “Happy birthday, Darling. These are yours. They are for your pleasure and the pleasure of your guests.”
Herod appeared somewhat a fool as he stood still behind the table on which Salome now still sat, her legs curled beneath her. She reached up and touched him. He recoiled in pleasure, hoping it wouldn’t end too soon. “Salome awaits you, my husband.” And then she paused, “. . . for a small compensation.”
“Half my kingdom!” he roared with a laughter that only one who’s had to much wine can laugh. “Ask me anything!” He was now serious and swore with an oath. “I will give it you!”
The girl turned and looked at her mother who simply nodded. This is the moment she had been waiting for, planning for. Salome knew what was required, “I desire that you give me here at once on a platter of polished silver,” she spoke so all could hear, pausing for dramatic effect, “the severed head of John the Baptist!” This she demanded with flourish, as though she had actually asked for half the kingdom.
Herod would have preferred she ask for half the kingdom. This he had not expected. Although he had once considered John’s execution, his attitude and demeanor toward the prophet had changed. He was no longer minded to do this. Herod rose slowly from the cushions. He had sworn. In front of all these Galilean nobles he had sworn to give this girl anything she wanted. He was not happy, but he could not now refuse her. His guests looked at him in amused anticipation. As if by magic, the chief of the bodyguard appeared as though expected to be summoned. The witch is well prepared, he thought. He waited, not wanting to do this but seeing no escape. At length he nodded his head toward the guard who thereupon left the room.
