“Yes,” Claudia’s eyes narrowed. “But if your god wished to save the Galilean’s life, why didn’t he let Pilate have the dream?”
Tullia shook her head thoughtfully. “I can’t say. I can’t fathom the mind of God, Mistress.” A suggestion of a smile crossed her face. “Maybe He thought you might have more influence on the Procurator than He Himself could.”
Claudia smiled. “Certainly I’m more real to Pilate—and threatening, no doubt—than your Yahweh.” With a quick lifting of her shoulder, she changed her tone. “But why talk of it further? I’m sure my message warned him sufficiently. And I want to forget the dream and the Galilean. This terrific heat is exhausting enough. Still, I do wonder....” She scowled and said no more.
The heat grew more intolerable. Longinus did not return, nor did any news come from Antonia. Midday passed, and as she had done the day before, Claudia retreated into the garden and sat on the stone bench before the spouting fountain. But today, unlike yesterday, there were no white puffs of clouds. Instead, from noon on, a thick overcast began to settle upon Jerusalem, so that inside the palace servants lighted lamps, which added, it seemed to Claudia, to the oppressiveness. As she sat staring introspectively at the spray of water, the heat, despite the covering of clouds screening off the sun’s rays, seemed to be mounting as the skies darkened; in the thickening gloom the air grew still; yesterday’s singing, twittering birds had taken cover under the heavy, drooping foliage, and all nature seemed silently expectant of a coming upheaval. But maybe, thought Claudia, the impending storm will not descend; maybe the winds, like yesterday, will spring up and blow the clouds away and bring welcome relief from this oppressive heat.
It was during this foreboding lull, some two hours past midday, that a sedan chair entered the palace grounds, and when the bearers set it down at the doorway, the Tetrarchess of Galilee and Peraea emerged and was admitted to the sumptuous edifice. A moment later, with much bowing and murmured directing, servants conducted her to the wife of the Procurator. But the two had done little more than exchange greetings and sit down together when the winds did come, and with a suddenness and severity that sent them scurrying for the protection of the palace. This time the clouds were not immediately blown away; crash after crash of lightning sundered them, and for a few wild moments they poured a deluge upon the steaming, crowded capital of ancient Israel.
“Claudia, I know you wonder why I have come,” Herodias said, when they were settled in one of the inner chambers into which little of the noise of the storm penetrated. “But soon the Feast of the Passover will be ended, and we will be going back to our posts; I’m sure you, at any rate, are unwilling to consider Caesarea home. So we may have little further opportunity to talk together alone, Herod’s engaged at the palace, and Pilate, I presume, will be busy at Antonia.” Claudia nodded. “Yes. Well, you remember once in Rome when you came over to see me and we were talking about Antipas and Longinus, and you wondered why I was interested in the Tetrarch....” Herodias paused, and Claudia, smiling, nodded again. “You may recall, too, I told you that I was interested in what the Tetrarch could become, in the position he might attain, rather than in Antipas as a man....”
“Yes, I recall. You said he might become a king like his father.”
“I did. Some day he might, I believe I said, with my conniving.” She leaned forward and looked Claudia directly in the eyes. “The time has come,” she said quietly, “for us to begin our determined conniving.”
“Our?” Claudia queried, her tone intent.
“Yes. What I’m scheming will concern you, and Longinus, as much as it will Antipas and me.” Her brow suddenly furrowed. “You still feel the same way about the centurion, don’t you, as you did when you left Rome to come out here?”