Chapter 1: King Herod. The Original X-Factor Judge from Hell

Instrument: Lyre (because nothing says “please don’t execute me” like polite applause. Talent Level: Competent — in the way a powerful despot is always competent Chaos Rating: 15/10 Most Unexpected Skill: Hosting musical performances while plotting political… reshuffle Why He’s In This Book: Because absolutely nobody expected him to be musical

The Most Terrifying Open-Mic Act in History

If you made a list of “people I’d expect to find strumming gently at a family gathering,” King Herod would be somewhere between ‘Attila the Hun’ and ‘The Grim Reaper’. The man is famous for one thing: being the villain in the Nativity story and several other stories where he plays the villain with even more enthusiasm.

So it might shock you to learn that this powerful, paranoid ruler — a man whose HR policy was mostly “be loyal or be gone permanently” — could actually play music.

Yes. King Herod was musical.

Just imagine it: The royal court assembled, the air thick with tension, everyone politely pretending the lyre is in tune because frankly that’s the safest option. Herod clears his throat.

You sit very still. You clap at all the right times. You do not blink too loudly.

Music critics in ancient Judea had one rule: Never give Herod a bad review. Ever.

It Gets Weirder

You’d think that a man spending most of his reign juggling political paranoia, brutal efficiency, and the occasional light genocide wouldn’t have much time left for the arts. But no. Herod was determined to be well-rounded — in the sort of way Ofsted might approve of, if Ofsted were significantly more stabby.

Ancient writers recorded — with an energy somewhere between fascination and “I’m only writing this because he can’t kill me now” — that Herod genuinely enjoyed music. Not just casually. Not “I dabble” level. We’re talking: good enough to perform semi-regularly, on purpose, to an audience he didn’t immediately execute afterwards.

Music was part of his brand. He wanted to be seen as the quintessential cultivated ruler:

• Lover of philosophy

• Patron of architecture

• Appreciator of the arts

• Occasional destroyer of anyone who annoyed him

A mix of Renaissance Man and HR department’s worst recurring nightmare.

Picture this:

The royal court gathers. Everyone’s sweating slightly — not because of the heat, but because “Herod’s performing again” is the ancient equivalent of hearing: “Your boss has brought his guitar to the staff barbecue.”

He steps forward.

One moment? 

He’s sentencing conspirators.

The next? 

He’s plucking gently at a lyre, offering the kind of earnest musical improvisation normally seen from a best man who definitely wasn’t sober enough to be trusted with an instrument.

He played with the unpredictable intensity of:

• Nero fiddling while Rome burned

• The world’s most anxious wedding musician

• A man whose audience always clapped on time, because the alternative was… unwise

The cognitive dissonance is incredible.

It’s like finding out:

• Attila the Hun knitted

• Darth Vader enjoyed watercolours

• Lord Voldemort wrote gentle acoustic ballads “for the vibe”

Herod could move seamlessly from: “Let’s discuss tax legislation,” to “Here’s Wonderwall — but in 1st-century Judean mode.”

The Ancient World Didn’t Know What To Do With Him

This duality confused everyone.

Court historians tried to capture it diplomatically, but you can feel the subtext:

“Herod performed with great skill and enthusiasm.” (Translation: “We couldn’t leave. We tried.”)

“The king delighted in musical refinement.” (Translation: “He made us listen. Often.”)

“His performances were memorable.” (Translation: “We have trauma.”)

And the best part?

Herod’s concerts were essentially compulsory.

“Come for the concert. Stay because leaving early is… discouraged.”

You didn’t book tickets. You didn’t check the programme. You didn’t bring snacks. You sat. You listened. You nodded approvingly. You clapped like your life depended on it because, technically, it did.

Was He Actually Any Good?

Shockingly… yes. And I know that’s not the answer you were hoping for. It would be so much more satisfying if history said:

“Herod attempted the lyre once, broke three strings, blamed the Jews, and banned music forever.”

But no. Herod grew up in a world where wealthy young men were expected to be cultured. And not the modern “went to one art gallery and posted about it on Instagram” kind of cultured — we’re talking full Old-World criteria:

• Philosophy

• Rhetoric

• Athletics

• Strategy

• And of course — music

Being able to perform wasn’t a quirky hobby. It was a status requirement. If you were born into power and couldn’t play an instrument, people assumed you were either poorly raised or probably plotting something (in Herod’s case, both).

So yes, he learned. He trained. He practised. And unlike most children learning an instrument, he had three enormous advantages:

1. No one could tell him he was bad. Every lesson was 100% positive feedback, 100% of the time.

2. He could afford exceptional teachers. And by “afford,” I mean “command their loyalty through fear and/or generous stipends.”

3. He had an audience who behaved perfectly. No coughing. No whispering. No shuffling chairs. No parents holding up an iPad to record. Just pure, unbroken, deeply-anxious silence.

His court experienced the world’s longest-running series of polite, terrified standing ovations.

So Was He Mozart?

Of course not. Let’s not be silly.

Mozart was a once-in-human-history prodigy. Herod was a tyrant with a lyre and no regard for personal boundaries.

Mozart composed symphonies at an age when most children still can’t clap in time. Herod composed… very little, and most of it has (thankfully?) been lost.

But Was He Better Than Half the Kids in Your School Talent Show?

Oh, unquestionably.

Think of all the kids who turn up to perform because their parents tell everyone:

“He’s very musical, you know.”

Then the child arrives on stage, holding a recorder with the confidence of a Roman gladiator and the skill of a startled goat. You can feel the audience collectively brace.

Herod was better than that. He’d practised. He had lessons. He had tutors who definitely did not want to disappoint him. He had the motivation of a man who wanted to appear “civilised” while simultaneously building fortresses and committing political murder like it was cardio.

So yes. He was good enough.

Not Mozart-good. Not Bach-good. Not “write an overture” good. But definitely “I can hold a tune and nobody will die because of this… unless they criticise me” good.