Phoenicia and part of Iturea, it included Galilee, Bashan, Samaria, Judea, Idumea, and Peraea—with limited dominion beyond its borders over what was left of the ancient Trans-Jordanic peoples, the Edomites and the Moabites and the Ammonites. All of this vast area was placed under the scepter of the dead Agrippa by his friend, the Emperor of Rome. Now, with its population of twenty diverse and fractious peoples, it would have fragmented and torn itself to shreds overnight, were it not for the invisible but memorable power of Rome. The two strange children in Tiberias were less rulers than reminders.
But to Berenice, for this short interval, it appeared that she ruled, that she governed, that she moved the pawns of power. In almost every case of decision, her brother Agrippa did as she advised him to. All sorts of people—soldiers and merchants and priests and Bedouin chieftains and petty lords and archons of this city and that city and ethnarchs of this district and that district and rabbis and Levites—all of these flocked to Tiberias during the first days of Agrippa’s rule, and less to see the king than his beautiful, green-eyed sister who was already the most discussed woman in Israel.
Among these visitors was an Alexandrian Jew named Philo, and when Berenice heard that he was in the city, she ordered that he be presented to her immediately. There was brought to her then a tall, thin man of sixty-four years, his hair and beard snow-white, his eyes deep blue, a simple white robe as his costume, and his feet bare as a symbol of mourning. He smiled at her warmly and then bent and kissed her hand. Then she had a chair brought for him and a tray of fresh fruit and wines. He in turn could not take his eyes from her.
“Is this then,” he finally said, “the child who was brought to us in Alexandria—the frightened child who knew not what fate awaited her among the barbarians? Do you remember me, Berenice? I am Philo, who would have been your uncle had that poor lad, my nephew, lived. The Alabarch Alexander is my brother. Surely you remember?”
“Could I forget?” Berenice smiled. “And if I should forget—would not the whole world know? For who is there in the world who has not heard of Philo, who is for our time Plato and Socrates and Euripides too. You see, I am not entirely the ignorant little savage my reputation presents. I have not read everything you have written, but I have read the Metaphysics and The Journey and parts of the Persecutions—”
“No savage, my dear,” Philo said. “I knew a little girl who was charming beyond her realization. I find a woman of grace and beauty, of whom the whole world talks.”
“Of the monster Berenice!”
“Oh, no—no,” replied Philo. “There are no monsters in my world, my dear—only men and women striving with uncertainty and ignorance and driven and compelled to the actions they take. Men are poor judges, and if they judge what we call evil, they must also perforce judge what we call good. That is why when news came to us at Alexandria that the great King Agrippa was dead, it was decided that I would journey here to Tiberias and present the condolences of myself and my brother and the whole community of Jews at Alexandria to yourself and your brother. For even though death intervened, we are knit together by ties of betrothal. It was perhaps too boastful a dream that we entertained—that our house would be knit to the House of Herod and the House of Mattathias, to create for all the Jews such a royal family as the old Greeks dreamed about when they speculated on the role of the philosopher kings. Too boastful a dream, too vainglorious, I think; for who are we to say what the future will bring? But in any case, there are ties—and in Alexandria we wept for your father. The synagogues were full, and the whole people prayed to God that He be gentle and understanding with the soul of your royal father—such children are we that we ask God to be
But to Berenice, for this short interval, it appeared that she ruled, that she governed, that she moved the pawns of power. In almost every case of decision, her brother Agrippa did as she advised him to. All sorts of people—soldiers and merchants and priests and Bedouin chieftains and petty lords and archons of this city and that city and ethnarchs of this district and that district and rabbis and Levites—all of these flocked to Tiberias during the first days of Agrippa’s rule, and less to see the king than his beautiful, green-eyed sister who was already the most discussed woman in Israel.
Among these visitors was an Alexandrian Jew named Philo, and when Berenice heard that he was in the city, she ordered that he be presented to her immediately. There was brought to her then a tall, thin man of sixty-four years, his hair and beard snow-white, his eyes deep blue, a simple white robe as his costume, and his feet bare as a symbol of mourning. He smiled at her warmly and then bent and kissed her hand. Then she had a chair brought for him and a tray of fresh fruit and wines. He in turn could not take his eyes from her.
“Is this then,” he finally said, “the child who was brought to us in Alexandria—the frightened child who knew not what fate awaited her among the barbarians? Do you remember me, Berenice? I am Philo, who would have been your uncle had that poor lad, my nephew, lived. The Alabarch Alexander is my brother. Surely you remember?”
“Could I forget?” Berenice smiled. “And if I should forget—would not the whole world know? For who is there in the world who has not heard of Philo, who is for our time Plato and Socrates and Euripides too. You see, I am not entirely the ignorant little savage my reputation presents. I have not read everything you have written, but I have read the Metaphysics and The Journey and parts of the Persecutions—”
“No savage, my dear,” Philo said. “I knew a little girl who was charming beyond her realization. I find a woman of grace and beauty, of whom the whole world talks.”
“Of the monster Berenice!”
“Oh, no—no,” replied Philo. “There are no monsters in my world, my dear—only men and women striving with uncertainty and ignorance and driven and compelled to the actions they take. Men are poor judges, and if they judge what we call evil, they must also perforce judge what we call good. That is why when news came to us at Alexandria that the great King Agrippa was dead, it was decided that I would journey here to Tiberias and present the condolences of myself and my brother and the whole community of Jews at Alexandria to yourself and your brother. For even though death intervened, we are knit together by ties of betrothal. It was perhaps too boastful a dream that we entertained—that our house would be knit to the House of Herod and the House of Mattathias, to create for all the Jews such a royal family as the old Greeks dreamed about when they speculated on the role of the philosopher kings. Too boastful a dream, too vainglorious, I think; for who are we to say what the future will bring? But in any case, there are ties—and in Alexandria we wept for your father. The synagogues were full, and the whole people prayed to God that He be gentle and understanding with the soul of your royal father—such children are we that we ask God to be
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