gold and purple linen , rode through the streets in a litter , but behind her back they
called her a whore , the Great Whore .
Partly out of compassion for her mother , and partly because she knew there was
no point in rebelling , Salome ceased dancing – at least when she was among people . On
her own , in her chambers or by moonlight in the gardens when all but the owls were
sleeping , she still danced , her cherished pastime . Salome had no need for an audience ,
and should she desire one , the stars in the sky , the trees swaying in the wind , the breeze
itself were her spectators , their loveliness urging her to ever greater skill and grace as
she sought to make her dance as beautiful as the world surrounding her .
Salome was sixteen when her world upended itself again .
They were living in troubled times , her stepfather would mutter , lines of worry
scored his forehead like battleplans drawn on a map . Religious radicals , an increased
military presence , political pressure from Rome . Salome knew little of this , for she spent
most of her days confined to her chambers , weaving or playing her harp , chatting with
the few noble-born maidens her mother deemed suitable company . But she was secretly
grateful , as the turmoil had hindered the search for her future husband .