“There,” he added, “there, I know you well. It was at Bethany I saw you first. Yes, yes, I remember perfectly; you were leaving, and Martha was in tears. Only a little since I had speech with her. She spoke of you; she knew you were called the Magdalen. No,” he continued, for Mary had shrunk back, “no, I will not curse. There is another by whom you will be blessed.”
Mary laughed. “I am going to Rome. Tiberius will give me a palace. I shall sleep on the down the Teutons bring. I shall drink pearls dissolved in falernian. I shall sup on peacocks’ tongues.”
“No, Mary, Rome you will never see. The Eternal has you in His charge. Your shame will be washed away.”
“Shame to you,” she interrupted. “Shame and starvation too.” She made as though she were about to pirouette again. “Whom are you talking of?”
“One whose shoes I am unworthy to bear.”
For a moment he seemed to meditate; then, with the melancholy of one renounce[pg 38]ing some immense ambition, he murmured, half to himself, half to the sky, “For him to increase I must diminish.”
“As for that, you are not much to look at now. I must go. I must braid my hair; the emir’s eyes are eager.”
“Mary,” he hissed, and the sudden asperity of his voice coerced her as a bit might do, “you will go to Capharnahum, you will seek him, you will say Iohanan is descended into the tombs to announce the Son of David.”
Through the lateral entrance to the terrace a number of guests had entered. From the balcony above, Antipas leaned and listened. Some one touched him; it was Herodias.
“The procurator is coming,” she announced. “You should be at the gate.”