“It’s a room hidden from prying eyes, and it’s his favorite room in the palace. When he entertains Annius, the Roman prefect, they spend all of their time in here conducting business. Among other things.”
The suggestive tone of her last sentence was somehow lost on me. “I don’t see why he wishes to install a woman’s face here. Wouldn’t fishes be more fitting?”
She smiled. “Oh, Ana, you are still young and naive about the ways of men. They conduct their business here, it’s true, but they also give way to other . . . interests. Why do they wish a woman’s face here? Because they are men.”
I thought of Tabitha. I wasn’t as naive about men as Phasaelis thought.
A scraping sound came from the alcove behind us. The click of bracelets. Then a low, guttering laugh.
“So, you’ve been spying on us,” Phasaelis called out. She looked past me, over my shoulder, and I spun around, grabbing for my towel.
Herod Antipas stepped from behind the arch. He fastened his gaze on me, his eyes moving from my face to my bare shoulders, then along the edges of the towel that barely covered my thighs. I swallowed, trying to force down my fear and disgust.
Phasaelis made no attempt to cover herself. She addressed me. “He sometimes watches me bathe. I should’ve warned you.”
Lascivious old man. Had he observed me step naked and dripping from the pool?
Recognition flickered in his face. “You’re the daughter of Matthias, the one we betrothed to Nathaniel ben Hananiah. I didn’t recognize you without your clothes.”
He stepped toward me. “Look at this face,” he said to Phasaelis, as if I were a sculpted object to be examined and discussed.
“Leave her be,” she said.
“It’s perfect. Large, well-spaced eyes. The high plump cheeks. Look at her mouth—I’ve never seen a more beautiful one.” Coming closer, he slid his thumb along my lower lip.
I glared at him. May you become crippled, blind, deaf, mute, and impotent.
His finger wound to my cheek, down to my neck. If I fled, what then? Would he send his soldiers after me? Would he do worse than rub his thumb across my face? I sat unmoving. I would endure this, and then he would leave.
He said, “You will sit for my artisan so he can sketch your face.”
Draping herself, Phasaelis said, “You want her face for your mosaic?”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s young and pure—it suits me.”
I sought his rodent eyes. “I will not allow my face to be in your mosaic.”
“You will not allow? I’m your tetrarch. One day I will be called King, as my father was. I can force you, if I wish.”
Phasaelis stepped between us. “If you force her, you’ll offend her father and her betrothed. But that’s for you to decide. You are the tetrarch.” I saw she was practiced at managing his caprices.
He pressed his fingers together, seeming to consider what she’d said. In that brief interim, I wondered if I was to become visible in the world not through my writings, but through pieces of broken glass and marble. Could the vision I’d had of my face inside the tiny sun refer to a mosaic in Antipas’s palace?
As I gripped the edge of the bench, an idea came to me. I didn’t stop to consider how it might turn into something unforeseen, even dangerous. I took a measured breath. “You may have my face for your mosaic, but on one condition. You must release my brother, Judas.”
He let loose a laugh that bounded off the walls. I glimpsed Phasaelis tuck her chin and grin.
“You think I should release a criminal who plots against me only for the pleasure of seeing your face on the floor of my baths?”
I smiled. “Yes, I do. My brother will be grateful and cease his rebellions. My parents will bless you, and the people themselves will call you blessed.”
It was those last words that snared him. He was a man despised by his people. He craved to