Herodias

Morning bares its head—red and hot. A head-less body waits in a prison cell for John the Baptist’s disciples. Servants tip-toe, not speaking, with a cluster of grapes, bread, broiled fish—on a platter. 

Arguments erupt from the street below.  I dismiss those attending to my every need with a slight of hand, curl into a ball—my pampered, aging hands quiver and cover my face.

Men filled with too much wine, talk, desire-- overly attentive to a scantily clad young woman, her full hips and slender arms swaying to the harpist’s strings--fill my head until it throbs.
However, with Herod’s hormones running amuck came a promise: to give whatever she asks. 

Salome came to me. For show, I hesitated and whispered what she already knew.

My heart quickened as this daughter of mine paraded in front of everyone to her father. “John the Baptist’s head-- on a platter,” she stated. Confidently. Herod’s face paled; he looked to me. His left eye, bloodshot and glassy, twitching, and the tremor in his left hand beginning.

Where is this feeling of satisfaction I yearned for?  Nausea comes in waves.
The king interrupts my thoughts.

“Herodias? You should get up and be about. Our palace aids, the army officers, and our leading citizens of Galilee expect more revelry. Although…” He stutters….

“Although what?” I snap, stand to battle; the platter clattering to the tiles-- grapes, fish, bread strewn.

The old man, he shuffles away. No more words. Sinking to my knees, I choke on each breath. Although restless, I cannot stand—remembering the man in camel’s hair clothing, living on locust and wild honey, preaching of forgiveness and One to come.
Now, his head on a platter drizzled with dry blood. 

A deed that cannot be undone.

Mark 6: 14-26