There were noble folk in Jerusalem who said they had seen the body of Mariamne embalmed in honey, above the king's chamber, where every day he could look upon it.
Some had seen him wandering about the palace at night with a candle, mourning over his loss and raging at his own folly.

Some had seen him so shaken by remorse that he roared like a lion goaded by hunger and the lance.

At such a time it was, indeed, a peril to come before him.
Plots against his life had worried him, and, distrusting his helpers, he was wont to go about the city in disguise seeking information.
Twice he had forgiven Antipater, his favorite son, for crimes in the royal household.
Now, in his seventy-sixth year, the king was, indeed, sorely pressed with trouble.

Jerusalem was the centre of a plot formidable and far-reaching.

Its object was, in part, clear to him, or so he thought, and with some reason.