We are on our way to the summer palace at Machaerus to hold my husband’s birthday banquet. My daughter and I are traveling together with my husband, Antipas, while the high officials and dignitaries of Galilee whom we have invited to the feast are scheduled to arrive a few days later. Holding the banquet not at the royal palace in Tiberias but at Machaerus, far to the south, is meant to demonstrate to them the enduring power of the throne.
Since my husband’s former wife fled to her homeland, Nabatea, tensions between the two countries have been high, and unsettling rumors have been circulating everywhere because of this issue. In response, my husband has concentrated his forces at Machaerus, a border fortress, to show people how solid our southern defenses are.
He doesn’t need to go to such lengths, but because of his ambition for power and his indecisive nature, which makes him avoid any action that might provoke trouble, he ends up taking this roundabout approach.
The problem with John the Baptist is just another extension of this. John has repeatedly denounced my husband for marrying me, and although my husband wants to kill him, he is afraid to do so because of John’s influence and reputation. Is he a righteous and holy man? What a joke. If he were truly righteous, how could he hurl such accusations at us?
Whenever I think of John the Baptist, imprisoned at Machaerus, my head begins to throb. He is the reason for every new wrinkle on my face. Every time I recall his denunciations, anger wells up inside me. Although the target of his accusations is not myself but my husband Antipas, in the end, those words are a condemnation and an attack against me as well.
What is wrong with leaving an incompetent husband who offered no hope and going to someone capable like Antipas? Is it because I, a woman, took the initiative in the divorce? Or because I remarried my husband’s brother while I had a child? If that’s what bothers them, so be it. The law says so, so I suppose they can spout such nonsense from their perspective. But what truly angers me is that I am not the only one who has done this, yet I am the only one being singled out for criticism. My maternal grandmother, Salome, once divorced her husband by giving him a certificate of divorce, and my aunt Glaphyra, though her husband had died, remarried his brother Archelaus even though she already had children. My mother also remarried a relative after my father’s death. They don’t criticize them as harshly, so why am I the only one treated this way?
It’s truly unbearable. I feel so unjustly treated that it’s driving me mad. Ever since childhood, nothing has gone well for me, and life has always been hard. Just when I thought my life was finally turning around after meeting Antipas, I ran into the obstacle of John the Baptist. How much does John the Baptist know about me to dare say such things? If he had lived a life like mine, he would never have dared to make such accusations.
My father was the second son born to King Herod and Miriamne I, a Hasmonean princess, and together with his older brother Alexander, he was highly regarded by the Jewish people. He inherited the noble lineage of the previous dynasty and was outstanding in appearance, so people could not help but love him. However, because of Salome, my maternal grandmother, who was jealous of my paternal grandmother Miriamne I and was also her sister-in-law, my grandmother was ultimately executed. This happened before my father was even married, and the incident left both my father and my uncle deeply scarred. The two of them, devastated by their mother’s death, had an extremely strained relationship with their father, and they knew that the instigator of the incident was their aunt Salome. In such circumstances, slander and hostility between them never ceased, and King Herod, to reduce the infighting within the family, arranged for his son Aristobulus to marry the daughter of his sister Salome. These are my father and mother.
But by then, things had gone too far for a simple marriage to improve the situation. My maternal grandmother Salome, wary of her son-in-law Aristobulus, constantly sowed discord so that her daughter, my mother Berenice, would not get along with her husband. As a result, my mother would relay even the most trivial jokes between her husband and his brother Alexander to my maternal grandmother, who would then report them to her brother, King Herod. As the relationship between father and sons deteriorated, my four siblings and I were born, but not long after, the appearance of the enemy Antipater led to the worst possible outcome: the unjust execution of my father Aristobulus and my uncle Alexander.
When my father was executed, I was just a child. When I grew up and it was time to marry, my grandfather, King Herod, arranged my marriage. While my four siblings were matched with good partners of similar age, I was married to someone of my father’s generation, another half-brother of my father, namely Philip, the son of Miriamne II. Perhaps my grandfather thought he was showing consideration for me, since at the time, my husband Philip also had a claim to the throne. If my husband became king, I thought I might finally be compensated for my difficult childhood, so I accepted the marriage. King Herod became my grandfather, my maternal grandmother’s brother, and my father-in-law—a complex relationship, but as long as I could become queen, I didn’t care what happened. But when even my husband was implicated in the downfall caused by the enemy Antipater, my tragic life became even more tangled.
Antipater, the eldest son of King Herod, plotted against his half-brothers and, after having them killed, pretended to grieve while continuing to occupy the position of second in the kingdom. But when my grandfather King Herod grew old and still did not die, Antipater, fearing that the throne would be taken by someone else, prepared to poison him. When this was discovered, he was executed in prison. At that time, my mother-in-law Miriamne II, who knew about the plot but pretended not to, caused my husband to be implicated and exiled as well. After that, I gave up everything and endured my incompetent husband, focusing only on raising my daughter—until I met Antipas and finally found true love and joy in life.
How difficult my past has been! I experienced my father’s execution and my mother’s remarriage, and I witnessed endless strife within the family. I saw countless people framed and executed, and I lived through the era of numerous revolts and chaos following King Herod’s reign. Does John the Baptist know anything about my past before he dares to criticize me? That he is a righteous man? It’s all nonsense. He is nothing but an enemy trying to ruin my life, which is finally beginning to turn around. What is the difference between him and Antipater? He, too, deserves to be executed in prison. Just wait and see—I will find a way to kill him, no matter what.
* * *
In a banquet hall as splendid as if all the finest things in the world had been gathered, Herod Antipas and his invited guests are enjoying the feast. The kingdom’s high officials, dignitaries from Galilee, and several centurions stationed at the fortress are present. Unlike John the Baptist, who, though imprisoned in the dungeon halfway up the mountain, enjoys freedom by the grace of God, they have become slaves of the world, drunk on wine.
Just as the banquet is reaching its peak, a servant approaches Herod and whispers to him.
“Your daughter wishes to dance for Your Highness.”
“What? Salome?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“But isn’t that against our customs?”
“In the region where your daughter grew up, it is customary to do so on truly celebratory occasions.”
“Is that so?”
Antipas was moved by the words of Salome, who was now his daughter—the daughter of Herodias. In Judea, it is not easily accepted for a woman to dance among so many men, but if Salome herself wishes to, perhaps there is no need to stop her. Having grown up in Rome and accustomed to Roman culture, he has learned to recognize and accept the ways of different regions, so he feels no particular discomfort with his daughter’s offer. On the contrary, he even feels grateful that his daughter would dance for him personally. When Salome first arrived, her expression was not so cheerful, but now it seems she truly accepts him as her father, and he feels pleased.
“Very well, let her do as she wishes.”
“As you command.”
Shortly after the servant leaves, Salome enters with a harpist and begins to dance. Her beautiful and mesmerizing movements captivate everyone at the banquet. Together with her beauty, her dance is a fatal temptation that enchants all who see it.
Antipas is delighted by the crowd’s reaction to his daughter. He wants to boast, “That child is my daughter. I am her father.” Truly, she is a daughter whose beauty would outshine anyone, anywhere. After all, her grandmother, who was also one of his own stepmothers, Miriamne II, was renowned for her extraordinary beauty, and her mother Herodias is also strikingly beautiful, so it would be odd if Salome were not lovely.
Without realizing it, Herod swallows hard. He wishes this moment could last forever. But, as always, such dreamlike moments never last. When the dance ends and the music stops, the momentarily entranced guests come to their senses and begin to applaud. Cheers fill the palace. Antipas’s mood is at its peak. At this point, the purpose of his birthday banquet is completely fulfilled. Even those who had disapproved of his marriage to Herodias, and who must be present here, will surely change their minds after seeing that dance. Salome is truly an unexpected treasure to him. He feels compelled to give her a great gift.
“Ask me whatever you want, and I will give it to you. Whatever you shall ask of me, I will give you, up to half of my kingdom.”
Antipas truly believes he could give her half his kingdom. Since she is now his daughter, what would he begrudge her?
“I must ask my mother.”
Salome bows her head in response and steps outside. Judging by the situation, it is clear that the dance was also Herodias’s idea. He is certain he made the right choice in marriage. His former wife could never have conceived of such a remarkable plan. Truly, it was right to fall in love with Herodias at first sight. When Salome returns, there is a strange smile on her face. What is it? What can she possibly want?
“I want you to give me right now, here on a platter, the head of John the Baptizer.”
Instantly, the banquet hall falls silent. A chilling wish from a beautiful girl—to bring a man’s head on a platter. As the guests are astonished by her indifferent attitude, Antipas sees through Herodias’s scheme.
She has always urged him to kill John the Baptist, and now she resorts to this method to have him killed. But who is John the Baptist? Though there is not a single person here who likes him, he was once suspected of being the Messiah. He is a righteous man, a prophet of God. To ask for his head on a platter—could any wish be more extreme? What should he do?
Antipas is distressed. But he has made an oath. What is an oath to a Jew? It is a solemn vow that must be kept. If he breaks the oath he made before all these guests, the entire purpose of this banquet—to gain their support—will collapse. He cannot allow that. After all the effort it took to create this moment and gain this support…
“…Let it be given.”
At last, Antipas sends soldiers to kill John the Baptist. Watching the guards leave at his command, Antipas wants to call them back, to say that John is not a man to be killed. But under the gaze of all those present, he cannot utter a word. Herod is bitterly disappointed to the depths of his heart. The only consolation is that he will no longer have to worry about a rebellion from John the Baptist’s followers. Yet, he also feels a spark of anger toward Herodias and Salome for having cornered him. He fears that if he is swayed by Herodias again, he may lose something even greater. He also decides he must marry Salome off as soon as possible. If he keeps seeing her, he will always be reminded of John the Baptist’s death—a memory he wishes to avoid. Since Philip the tetrarch has no children, he will send her to him. The age difference between Philip and Salome is even greater than between himself and Herodias, so this can be seen as a punishment for Salome’s actions.
John the Baptist is beheaded in his prison, and his head is brought to Salome on a platter. Salome takes it to her mother.
Thus, John the Baptist enters the kingdom of God, a place he could never have reached by any other means. Now, as a citizen of heaven, he will see clearly the true identity of Jesus.
John the Baptist’s disciples come to Machaerus to bury him, then go to Jesus to tell Him of his death. Hearing this, Jesus leaves the territory of Herod Antipas and withdraws to a secluded place near Bethsaida, which belongs to the tetrarchy of Herod Philip. As the news spreads, large crowds from many towns begin to follow Him on foot.
The passages from Matthew 14:7-9, Mark 6:22-25 quoted in this narrative are taken directly from the World English Bible (WEB) translation.
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