Since no one exceeded Philip’s eleven, he was formally declared “King of Drinking.” From now on Philip would have to direct the comissatio, determining the order for proposing the toasts, and in what proportion water was to be mixed with the wine.
“We drink to the health of our honored host on his birthday—at a good, stout one-half!” Philip led off. Slaves quickly measured out equal portions of wine and water into a large mixing bowl, and stirred the blend. Then they ladled out exactly seven-twelfths of a pint into the goblets of each of the guests, who had to drain them in a single quaff. The precise quantity was no accident: one-twelfth pint was meted out for each letter in the name of the man whose health had been proposed. “Antipas” made seven twelfths.
The entertainment continued. A small corps of pantomimes performed several indecent playlets, which did not go over as well as Antipas had hoped. Philip then rose to his feet and said, “We drink to the health of our honored guest, the prefect of Judea. May his tenure be long! A hearty two-thirds!”
Amid cheers of the guests, slaves measured out two portions wine to one of water and again hastily ladled out seven-twelfths pint of the mixture to each guest, for the seven letters in “Pilatus.”
The final floor routine was a troupe of very badly coordinated dancing girls, clearly local talent hastily conscripted for the evening. There was a bit of grumbling disapproval from the guests. Then Philip accidentally knocked over a flagon of wine onto the tunic of a Galilean chief sitting next to him. A slave, hurrying to assist the man, collided with another servant, who dropped a tray of dishes. The resounding clatter shattered the mood of the banquet, and the furious tongue-lashing given the hapless slave by the rotund chef helped matters not at all. Antipas’s birthday party was coming apart at the seams. He called Chuza to him, whispered something, then sent him scurrying off.
Four toasts, and several degrees of intoxication, later, Antipas arose to announce that Salome had consented to honor their comissatio by performing a dance. Everyone put down his chalice and stared at the host for this precedent-shattering idea. Entertaining at a comissatio was only for lewd servant women or actresses and prostitutes, not members of one’s own family. Philip glared at his half brother with all the fury of a wounded animal. Pilate wondered if Antipas were really that drunk.
Two lyrists, concealed behind curtains, started playing at each other in graceful counterpoint, and then the precocious Salome appeared. Clad in the festival costume of a Galilean peasant girl, the nineteen-year-old performed a sprightly folk dance which was popular during the Feast of Tabernacles. Salome whirled close to the banquet tables so that she could be seen to proper advantage, since only torches and candles illuminated the hall. Pilate was amazed at what three years had done to the girl. She looked arrestingly lovely, no longer the passionate teenager, but now a richly voluptuous woman. Enhanced by the ruddy warmth of the fire-glow, her exquisite performance of the dance captivated Pilate as much as Antipas and his friends. She was careful to lavish elfin gestures on each important guest and especially Philip, the “King of Drinking,” who sat enthralled with infatuation for Salome.
Slaves suddenly appeared by each candle and torch, and, at a given signal, all lights were extinguished. Startled, Pilate sat up and grabbed for his dagger until he saw a brazier flaring up in the middle of the darkness. Then the lyres started plucking out a very different rhythm, a slow and languid staccato which gradually picked up tempo. A small drum now added its hollow thump to the music.
Then Salome reappeared, dressed only in the gauzy tunic she had been wearing under her peasant costume. It was a girl-size garment hugging the lush contours of a grown woman, and Pilate noticed at once the brief distance the hem extended down her upper thighs. Salome’s whole body seemed to gyrate and throb a perfect response to the music as she darted up to and back from the fire, caressing the warmth, then swiveling away from it. Several times Pilate and the other men gasped as she vaulted right over the flames unsinged. With the brazier as the only light in the hall, gigantic shadows played on the ceiling, enlarging her nubile form to heroic dimension. The source of it all was a symphony of sensuality, her fair skin painted a golden russet by the flames, the diaphanous white tunic clinging precariously to the rest of her.
Pilate was distracted by some labored breathing next to him and he pried his eyes away for a moment to find the cause. It was Herod Antipas, gaping at Salome in a near-hypnotic trance, a man so helplessly captivated by the sight that his lower jaw sagged limply and he was almost snorting with emotion. A slave approached with a napkin to absorb a string of drool which was starting to dangle from Antipas’s mouth. Ignoring the wiping, Antipas mumbled, “Salome, my daughter. Salome…my own daughter? No, thank the Fates, my stepdaughter.” Then he smiled.
Salome concluded her dance with a deep bow in front of Antipas. Then the brazier was extinguished and the torches relit.
Pilate, Antipas, and the other guests rose as one man to cheer and applaud. Salome’s performance was the breath of excitement which had resuscitated the corpse of Antipas’s party. And, somewhat tipsy now, but overflowing with gratitude to his stepdaughter, the tetrarch fawned, “Splendid…magnificent, my darling Salome! And now you must have a reward for your performance. Ask me for anything: I’ll give it to you!”
“Thank you, Father. But…how do you mean?”
“I said, Lovely One, ask me for anything and it’s yours, by Heaven, even if it’s half my kingdom.”
Antipas’s comment was seconded by approving cheers. “Ask for Perea,” Philip laughingly suggested. “Or all of Galilee—that would be exactly half his kingdom.”
Further advice was silenced by her reply. “Thank you, noble Father, but your appreciation is enough reward.”
“Ask for something, Salome! I want to give you a gift!”
“Well…do you mind if I ask Mother first?”
“Not at all,” Antipas replied.
While Salome retreated to the women’s quarters for Herodias’s advice, the host was the target of a good bit of banter. “Beware, Tetrarch,” said the commander of his guard at Tiberias, “and remember, you swore to fulfill her request!”
“Did I?” wondered Antipas, showing a trifle of mock concern.
“You said ‘By Heaven,’ which is one of the stronger oaths.”
“Ahahaha!” exulted Philip. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m going to tell Salome to ask for Galilee. Then I’ll marry her, and add Galilee to my own tetrarchy. And then,” he paused, “I’ll be the size of your Judea and Samaria, Pilate!”
Antipas frowned fiercely for a moment, then released a colossal guffaw.
“Laugh, will you?” Philip said, as he got up from the table. No one knew if he were staging a practical joke or not.
But Salome returned. Stillness descended on the hall as everyone wondered what she would choose. Only the soft tread of her sandals was heard as she carefully walked up to Antipas and looked at him with a puckish smile.
“Yes, dearest,” he said. “What have you chosen?”
“As reward, Father, I want you to give me—immediately—the…the head of John the Baptizer on a platter.”
But for a few indrawn breaths, there was total silence. Salome repeated her request, more firmly.
“Aha,” Antipas emitted a forced chuckle, “you’re joking, of course, Salome.”
“No, Father.”
“Your mother…did suggest…insist?”
“She told me to remind you of your oath.”
There was no sound, and this compounded the unreality of the situation. In the course of a raucous evening, nothing is louder than silence.