A.D. 30 Read online

  He offered no response.

  “Please, call Phasa, I beg you!”

  The outer gate slammed shut.

  Then it was too dark to see and I mistakenly knocked over the bowl.

  Be strong, Maviah. Only a day or two and Phasa will come for you. It is only a short time and you will stand before Aretas and he will hear your plea.

  I’d rehearsed my request many times as we approached Petra.

  The guard once again brought food and water many hours later. Once again he shoved it under the gate without looking at me. Once again I called out to him without receiving a response. But this time I grabbed the bowl in the diminishing light.

  Just one more day, Maviah. They are discussing it this very moment. Soon Phasa will come.

  Had it been only a day, I think I would have retained my full courage. Even two days. As best I could calculate, I was given food twice each day, and it was after the sixth time they brought food that I finally submitted to the truth of my predicament.

  Phasa had failed to persuade her father to hear me. Aretas, influenced by his queen, would wait for the truth from Herod himself before considering his options.

  How long would it take to secure word from Galilee? A week at best. Two weeks. And how quickly would Herod make his intentions known?

  I might be in waiting for a long time, living like a rat in this dark cell.

  The thoughts filled me with dread as three days became four. And then five.

  The uncertainty of not knowing when or how I would be heard affected me more than any belief that I would not be heard. Aretas would surely give me audience when the time came.

  Unless Nicodemus had been misinformed about Herod’s intentions to marry Herodias.

  Unless Herod reversed his course.

  Unless the Thamud—Kahil or his father, Saman—were now in Petra, conspiring to seal my fate.

  Unless no one really cared what happened to me, for who was I but a slave? Unless this was my just reward for having courted the belief, however thin, that I was more than a woman deserving of her fate.

  My mind began to ravage me.

  I tried to hold on to my surreal encounter with Yeshua in Capernaum. But his power was not with me in my cell, and though I tried to follow his teaching to release fear, I could not find a way to shift my mind. With each passing day, my memory of him seemed to fade.

  I spent many hours also thinking of Judah, my lion who had saved me more than once. Surely he would save me again. Surely I would find a way to save him. Surely he would not end his days in a Nabataean dungeon on my account. I would not be able to live with such terrible guilt.

  A week passed. Or was it eight days? I lost track. I curled up in a ball on the dirt when it became cold, hating myself for feeling so powerless.

  And then I felt the first significant shift in my mind. Though I had attempted to accept my fate, the first sparks of anger ignited deep within me.

  I cannot say that my anger resulted from any particular thought, but the moment I felt that heat in my chest, I clung to it, then fed it with deliberate thoughts.

  Had I ever betrayed anyone for my own gain, that the gods would have cause to punish me?

  Had I not done my best to serve as a slave?

  Had I not loved my son and nurtured him with life from my own breasts? Had I not honored my own father, even in his rejection of me? Had I not followed his wish in taking the dagger of Varus to Herod?

  Was it my fault that I had been born a woman?

  For hours the thoughts pounded through me, growing in their strength. I stood and paced, blood flowing hot through my veins. I despised any god who would visit such suffering on any mortal.

  Yeshua had spoken of turning his cheek, and of a Father who did not judge, but my father knew only judgment and was made in the image of gods who loved only those who obeyed their every wish.

  My thoughts turned again to Judah. To the way he’d led me through the desert and held me tenderly and saved me from Brutus. The moment an image of him being whipped filled my mind, I gripped my hands to fists and screamed into the darkness. Not once but many times.

  My fury did not free me from the dungeon, but perhaps some god somewhere heard me, because the next day they came for me.

  They came for me, but I felt little relief, so numb had my ravaging thoughts left me.

  Four guards—two with torches, and two to shackle me and lead me from the cell. None offered a word of explanation.

  I shrugged from their grip and walked upright, jaw tight, blood still hot.

  They led me up the steps into the blinding sunlight. Only then did I come to myself and remember my true purpose in Petra. I stopped. Stunned that I’d drifted so far in my thinking, I allowed the sight of the sun to flood me with hope.

  “Move!” One of the guards shoved me and I walked on.

  My entire body was covered in filth and my hair was thick with dirt and sweat. But I was beyond caring what any might think of me. I was going to be heard. That was all that mattered.

  Still, they delivered me to a washhouse, where three servants stripped and washed me using buckets of cold water, then dressed me in a plain white tunic and brushed my hair. Satisfied, they passed me to the guards, who shackled my hands once again.

  They must have been under orders not to speak, for they were silent. Neither did I have anything to say to them.

  Once again I was led into the great court that resembled a temple. Once more up the steps and into the inner courts of King Aretas, my head held high, for I had weathered their torment and was Maviah still, unharmed.

  The open floor that I had taken for a theater was now set up as a court of law. Three wood tables formed a three-sided square with ornate chairs behind each table. Candle stands were set upon long silk runners, and bowls of fruits and nuts had been placed before nine members of Petra’s ruling class.

  Presiding at the head was King Aretas, dressed in regal purple, adorned with gold bands and heavy rings. Shaquilath, his queen, hair piled high, wore a sheer, close-fitting white dress. She sparkled like a jeweled tower.

  The others I did not know, except Phasa, who bolted to her feet the moment I was led into the court.

  “Unshackle her!” she snapped, hurrying to me.

  The guards complied, then stepped back to the wide doors and took their place next to four others. I scanned the room but saw no sign of Judah or Saba.

  “Are you well, my dear?” Phasa grabbed my hand and kissed it. “Tell me they treated you well as I was promised.”

  She spoke clearly for all to hear, and in her sincerity I found courage.

  “Where is Judah?” I asked.

  “They refuse to release him until they have heard you.”

  “Please, Phasa,” Aretas said with a wave of his hand. “Sit.”

  “Be strong,” she whispered, gripping my hand. “Show them you are a queen.” She nodded a final encouragement, then retreated to her chair next to her father.

  Aretas leaned back with one hand on the table and eyed me past bushy eyebrows. In his dark eyes I saw a lifetime of cunning and struggle, knowing that the Nabataean were world-renowned for their delicate strategy and brute force. They alone had managed to form strong ties with the Bedu sheikhs, who yielded to none but this man, for the great wealth he provided, for truly, only gold was thicker than blood.

  For a long moment, we looked at each other without speaking. He drummed the table with the tips of his ringed fingers.

  “Maviah, daughter of Rami. Do you know what happens now in Dumah?”

  “Only that the Thamud butchered many Kalb for position and wealth,” I said. “Only that Kahil bin Saman threw my son to his death for sport.”

  This seemed to give him pause and I knew he’d not heard of my son’s death.

  “My condolences,” he said. “But now know more. The Thamud raid the Kalb as far as the Kalb can run, because the Kalb are headless. Your women are taken and your men killed. There is no mercy for eithe
r. Saman bin Shariqat ignores the Bedu code of honor and takes life where none is owed. The desert flows with blood.” He took a deep breath. “This is what happens when my daughter dies in the care of Rami bin Malik. This is the consequence of defying Aretas, king of the Nabataeans, friend of his people, and his people alone. Without my direction the Bedu only butcher each other. So be it. But make no mistake, one word from me and my army would crush the Thamud where they stand.”

  I blinked, taken aback by the extent of the devastation.

  “And yet Dumah pays me my full tax,” he said.

  “My father?” I asked.

  “Awaits execution at my word. So you see who it is that you stand before now?”

  I dipped my head in respect. “I stand before the king to whom I entrusted my life in coming.”

  Shaquilath flung a dagger from the table. It clattered to the floor and slid to a stop three paces from me.

  The dagger of Varus.

  “And what was your intent in presenting this to that snake, Herod?”

  I studied her before speaking. “So you have heard from Sepphoris?”

  “Answer my question.”

  Before I could, Phasa spoke for all to hear. “We have heard. Herod has announced to his advisers plans to marry Herodias. As you said, Maviah. I live only because of you.”

  “Phasa…” Aretas warned.

  She sat back and crossed her arms, satisfied for having said her piece.

  “Well?” the queen demanded. “Answer my question. The dagger.”

  I addressed her with care, knowing that she was the one who would decide my fate.

  “I was thrown aside by my father when I was born, and sold into Egypt as a slave, where I served a Roman house. But the mistress sought revenge when I loved a slave whom she desired, though her passions were unknown to me. I was cast out again and sent to Dumah with my infant son. There only Nashquya loved me and called me her sister, though Rami was shamed by my presence. Being the stronger, she persuaded Rami to keep me.” I looked at Aretas. “When Nasha fell ill, she feared your retribution on Rami and begged me to flee. But I could not abandon my father and be shamed once again.”

  “And what does this tale of gloom have to do with Herod?” the queen snapped.

  “Suspecting that his son, Maliku, might betray him, Rami sent for me. When the Thamud descended upon Dumah, he gave me the dagger of Varus and begged me to find Herod.”

  “To what end?” Aretas said.

  “For the purpose of securing an alliance between the Kalb and Rome. He would offer Rome the northern trade route if they would drive the Thamud from Dumah.”

  The king’s right brow arched. “The Thamud and their Nabataean allies.”

  “Yes,” I said without pause. “Rami saw no other way to restore his honor.”

  This much I guessed they knew, but my forthrightness was unexpected, judging by the stretch of silence that followed.

  I pressed on while I had their ear.

  “So I made my way to Palestine as any honoring daughter would do. I entered Herod’s courts and presented Rami’s offer. It was there that your daughter, Phasa, and I became like sisters as much as Nasha and I had been sisters.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Aretas said. “Sisters all, so we have heard. We have not heard, however, how you learned of Herod’s intentions.”

  “What the king is asking,” Shaquilath interrupted, “is how we know this courageous act of yours isn’t some elaborate plot between you and that snake, Herod, to undermine the Nabataeans.”

  I blinked, confused by her line of thought.

  “But my queen—”

  “I am not your queen. I am Shaquilath, queen of the Nabataeans, not the Kalb.”

  I felt my anger rise, but dipped my head. “As you say. How could I conspire to undermine you by rescuing your daughter? Surely there is no longer any question of my own risk in saving her.”

  “Is it so difficult for a slave to understand?” Shaquilath spoke through twisted lips. “Herod’s purpose was to rid himself of Phasa. Yours was to gain our support to reclaim Dumah for your father. Isn’t this what you have said?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, then, you conspired with Herod to convince Phasa to flee him. He may now say that Phasa fled because she wanted to be rid of him, not he of her! Having been abandoned by his wife, he is free to find comfort in another woman’s embrace.” She paused. “As well, you may now claim you rescued her from Herod, and so win the grace of Aretas for your return to Dumah. Both you and Herod get what you want, and we are left the fools.”

  I had never considered such a convoluted plot, but I immediately saw how a cunning mind might.

  “So, then…” the queen said. “Your plot has been uncovered.”

  “This is absurd!” Phasa cried. “I was with Maviah day and night and this was not in her heart!”

  “By Isis, I swear no such thought passed my mind,” I said. “I found Herod to be a greedy man, smitten by lust for another woman. I am a Bedu, bound to my father, a slave who knows how to serve a master, a woman who seeks honor. I am not one to deceive a king or his daughter!”

  Shaquilath studied me.

  “Herod has been with Herodias for many months,” I continued, adamant. “This you will learn. I only met him the day before his departure from Sepphoris, just weeks after Dumah was overtaken by the Thamud. Did Herod and I conspire to this elaborate scheme in the few minutes I was with him the night before his departure? I am a mortal, not a goddess to work such spells.”

  A thin smile curved the king’s lips.

  He nodded after a moment. “I think she has made her case.” He set his elbows on the table and touched the tips of his fingers together. “So, then, Herod has defied me of his own will. And for this he will feel my full wrath. I will crush him, you must know. No one can be allowed to defy my kingdom. Not one.”

  “I would expect no less,” I said. Shaquilath glared at me. “And to this end, I have no doubt that you will succeed. All I ask is that you grant me grace by returning Dumah to the rightful control of the Kalb in return for saving Phasa.”

  “Ha!” The queen scoffed. “What Kalb are left to control Dumah?”

  “If they knew that King Aretas, friend of his people, supported the Kalb, they would rise from the sands and crush the Thamud,” I said. “Who would you prefer control the northern desert? Rami, who showed no aggression, or the Thamud, who are treacherous and will surely bite the hand that now feeds them?”

  “Now you tell the king how to conduct his affairs?” Shaquilath demanded.

  “I only speak what a woman might know, which is nothing.”

  I let the statement settle upon her, for she too was a woman.

  “What you ask is impossible, naturally,” Aretas said, but I believe he was intrigued by me. “Dumah has found its fate with the Thamud. My only concern now is Herod.”

  “Herod, yes,” I said. “But if your eyes are only on the north, the south may—”

  “Silence!” Shaquilath snapped. “Matters of state are none of your concern. Remember who you are!”

  I looked at Phasa, who smiled, clearly encouraged by all she’d heard. And I remembered who I was. Judah had told me. As had Yeshua.

  “I do remember who I am,” I said to Aretas. “I am Maviah, who crossed the Nafud and made her way to Herod’s courts. I am Maviah, who found the favor of the king. I am Maviah, who delivered Phasa from certain death. And now I will be Maviah, the servant of King Aretas in his bid against Herod.”

  No one spoke, for they had not expected such a bold statement.

  “How so?” Aretas asked.

  I glanced at the others seated in silence, each one watching me intently. Not one of them so much as coughed.

  As I now understood my predicament, I had not the slightest leverage except grace from Aretas, which Shaquilath would never condone.

  Even if Aretas released me to the desert, I would return only to bloodshed and bitter enemies. My only ho
pe was in gaining Aretas as an advocate, and the only way to gain his trust was to prove myself further. Saving Phasa was not enough.

  “I will prove myself to you further, my king.”

  He did not protest my use of his title.

  “And?”

  “You now have an enemy far greater than Rami. Herod defies you to your face for all the world to see. I will return to him.”

  Even the queen seemed intrigued now.

  “You are under the impression that I need your help?” Aretas said.

  “No. But I have my ways with Herod. He has a fascination with women, as you know. I will return in great distress, claiming to have been taken by force, as Phasa’s letter to him has said.”

  “Brilliant!” Phasa cried, standing to her feet. “That’s it! Maviah will be a spy in his bed and learn of his plans, then betray him as he betrayed me.”

  “Sit!”

  “She’s right about the pig,” Phasa said. “His lusts know no bounds.”

  “Sit down!”

  She sat.

  “She might be right about Herod, but Maviah doesn’t know Herodias,” Shaquilath said. “I’ve heard of this witch. It will never work.”

  “I will worry about Herodias,” I said. “Herod will surely expect retaliation from you. I might lead him astray.”

  “How so?”

  “I would tell him how I was treated like a slave and mercilessly thrown in a dark pit for many days.” This much was true. “I would convince him that I know of your plans for the harshest retaliation.”

  Aretas frowned and then stood. He paced. “She’s right, Herod will expect retaliation. He knows that I cannot allow his insult to stand.”

  “Surely he prepares already,” I said.

  He turned to me. “You know this?”

  “Would you not prepare?” I continued before he could respond, moving to my right only to match his movement. “But I might persuade him that you will accept a lesser penalty than war.”

  “I would never accept a lesser penalty.”

  “Of course not. But he won’t know this. By agreeing to a lesser payment, he will lower his guard.”

  “Allowing me to strike effectively.”

  “Precisely.”