gentle.”
Berenice did not know how to answer him. His guileless face and his clear blue eyes rejected the polite commonplaces that she would ordinarily have spoken.
“My father,” she began—
“I know more of your father than you might imagine, Berenice, but I judge him within a context. There are many easier matters than to be king. Four years he ruled over Israel, and in those four years he allowed us our pride. Our pride is very important to us. So important that we accept the hatred and envy of millions rather than part with a shred of it.”
“Did he?” Berenice wondered. Awed at first at having the living legend of Jewish philosophy before her, this tall, white-bearded Jew of Alexandria, who had the power of a prince without domain, whose family was reputed to be one of the three richest in all the world—awed at first, she was irritated now, provoked, and childishly unable to contain her irritation and annoyance. Somehow, she could accept praise of her father from others; not from this man. “I don’t think you knew him. Not at all.”
“Perhaps.”
“Do you know who my husband is?”
“Herod of Chalcis,” Philo nodded.
“That’s my heritage from my father—”
“I know what you feel.”
“That and the blood of Herod.”
“There’s no curse in the blood of Herod, Berenice.”
“Please, leave me now,” she said to Philo. “My brother and I will both talk to you later. Now I am tired.”
He took his departure gracefully and without offense. When he had gone, Berenice covered her face with her hands, her body wracked with hard, dry sobs.
Philo remained four days in Tiberias, and during that time he was constantly with either Berenice or Agrippa. Both of them remembered those days, for it was the last time Philo came to Palestine. Three months after he returned to Alexandria, he was dead. But the memory of his being with her was a good thing for Berenice, the memory of his calm and his dispassionate view of events being an antidote to her depressions during the following years.
The very day after Philo left Tiberias, Vibius Marsus arrived. Vibius Marsus was proconsul of Syria, and at that time the most powerful and important representative of Rome in the Near East. From his headquarters in Damascus, he kept his finger on the pulse of the entire Jewish world—Marsus being one of those perceptive Romans who realized that in all of its history, Rome had faced only two real threats, two powers that might have destroyed her. The first was Carthage, and the second was Jerusalem. But just as Carthage was more than the single city, so was Jerusalem, and from Damascus to Alexandria there was no city in which the Jews were not the pivotal force, the nucleus of wealth, culture, and power. Recently Marsus had been to Rome, where the Emperor Claudius had said to him, “These Jews will eat us yet, Marsus.” “Unless they eat each other,” Marsus had replied. He was in Rome when news of Agrippa’s death reached that city, and the emperor had called him and had said to him, “The time has come for Jew to eat Jew, Marsus.” That same day Vibius Marsus left Rome, and twelve hours later he was on a fast galley bound for Palestine and Caesarea. In Caesarea, he spent a few hours talking to Germanicus Latus, and then Marsus set off for Tiberias, himself and his secretary and two Roman soldiers. He left behind him in Caesarea a man who had traveled with him all the way from Rome, a man called Cuspius Fadus.
So to Berenice these two events were connected. Philo went back to Alexandria and to his death, and Vibius Marsus came to Tiberias, riding on a large black horse, two mounted soldiers and his secretary behind him. Before he left, Philo bid Berenice farewell, telling her,
“My child, let Berenice judge Berenice.”
“What do you mean?” Berenice wanted to know.
“Think about it enough and you will realize what I mean. Have you ever tried to love?”
“Oh? Is it something you attempt,
Berenice did not know how to answer him. His guileless face and his clear blue eyes rejected the polite commonplaces that she would ordinarily have spoken.
“My father,” she began—
“I know more of your father than you might imagine, Berenice, but I judge him within a context. There are many easier matters than to be king. Four years he ruled over Israel, and in those four years he allowed us our pride. Our pride is very important to us. So important that we accept the hatred and envy of millions rather than part with a shred of it.”
“Did he?” Berenice wondered. Awed at first at having the living legend of Jewish philosophy before her, this tall, white-bearded Jew of Alexandria, who had the power of a prince without domain, whose family was reputed to be one of the three richest in all the world—awed at first, she was irritated now, provoked, and childishly unable to contain her irritation and annoyance. Somehow, she could accept praise of her father from others; not from this man. “I don’t think you knew him. Not at all.”
“Perhaps.”
“Do you know who my husband is?”
“Herod of Chalcis,” Philo nodded.
“That’s my heritage from my father—”
“I know what you feel.”
“That and the blood of Herod.”
“There’s no curse in the blood of Herod, Berenice.”
“Please, leave me now,” she said to Philo. “My brother and I will both talk to you later. Now I am tired.”
He took his departure gracefully and without offense. When he had gone, Berenice covered her face with her hands, her body wracked with hard, dry sobs.
Philo remained four days in Tiberias, and during that time he was constantly with either Berenice or Agrippa. Both of them remembered those days, for it was the last time Philo came to Palestine. Three months after he returned to Alexandria, he was dead. But the memory of his being with her was a good thing for Berenice, the memory of his calm and his dispassionate view of events being an antidote to her depressions during the following years.
The very day after Philo left Tiberias, Vibius Marsus arrived. Vibius Marsus was proconsul of Syria, and at that time the most powerful and important representative of Rome in the Near East. From his headquarters in Damascus, he kept his finger on the pulse of the entire Jewish world—Marsus being one of those perceptive Romans who realized that in all of its history, Rome had faced only two real threats, two powers that might have destroyed her. The first was Carthage, and the second was Jerusalem. But just as Carthage was more than the single city, so was Jerusalem, and from Damascus to Alexandria there was no city in which the Jews were not the pivotal force, the nucleus of wealth, culture, and power. Recently Marsus had been to Rome, where the Emperor Claudius had said to him, “These Jews will eat us yet, Marsus.” “Unless they eat each other,” Marsus had replied. He was in Rome when news of Agrippa’s death reached that city, and the emperor had called him and had said to him, “The time has come for Jew to eat Jew, Marsus.” That same day Vibius Marsus left Rome, and twelve hours later he was on a fast galley bound for Palestine and Caesarea. In Caesarea, he spent a few hours talking to Germanicus Latus, and then Marsus set off for Tiberias, himself and his secretary and two Roman soldiers. He left behind him in Caesarea a man who had traveled with him all the way from Rome, a man called Cuspius Fadus.
So to Berenice these two events were connected. Philo went back to Alexandria and to his death, and Vibius Marsus came to Tiberias, riding on a large black horse, two mounted soldiers and his secretary behind him. Before he left, Philo bid Berenice farewell, telling her,
“My child, let Berenice judge Berenice.”
“What do you mean?” Berenice wanted to know.
“Think about it enough and you will realize what I mean. Have you ever tried to love?”
“Oh? Is it something you attempt,
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