A.D. 33 Page 3

  Memories of her soft voice in his ear, asking him far too many bold questions for a woman. How he loved her for them all.

  Memories of her lips upon his own, of her body pressed against his, seeking comfort and courage. Of her walking confidently into Herod’s court, however unsure her heart. Of rescuing her from Brutus. Of her standing tall before King Aretas. Could anyone deny that she was a queen?

  These and many other recollections were Judah’s only companion for so long. These and his memories of Yeshua, the king who would liberate his people from Roman tyranny.

  Yeshua, who had come with a sword to divide the people from their oppressors.

  But in time, speaking became futile and the memories began to fade. Soon he could no longer recall what Maviah looked like without considerable effort.

  Bitterness crept into his mind then, like a poison that at first fueled him, then began to eat away at his sanity.

  Why had they not come? Or had they come, only to be defeated? But Saba would die before accepting defeat. So then, was Saba dead? The Thamud were still in control of Dumah. So then, had Maviah failed? And if so, was she still alive?

  Eventually, the questions themselves drifted off into the darkness and he let them go, because he could not endure the pain they brought him.

  It was then that Maliku started coming to his cell. There by the light of the torch, it had taken Judah a minute to recognize Maviah’s half brother, the man who had shown his true colors of betrayal by leading the Thamud into Dumah to crush his own father, Rami.

  Maliku returned to Judah’s cell periodically after that, rarely speaking more than a few words, asking only if he might offer any comfort. In a show of mercy, he ordered the guards to place straw on the mud and empty the bucket of waste every day.

  Judah was tempted to ask Maliku if Maviah was still alive, but he didn’t think he had the strength to learn of her fate should she be dead.

  Maliku continued to come, and Judah began to wonder if the man’s Kalb blood had finally prompted regret for his betrayal. To live in such terrible guilt might be a fate worse than a dungeon.

  Only yesterday a new thought crept into his mind. If Maliku suffered such dreadful guilt, what might have triggered it? Maviah’s death. What else would cause such a turn in the man?

  Maviah, the woman he cherished, was dead.

  With that thought, Judah once again felt truly alive. For the first time in many months he could feel deeply. But the emotions crushed him, robbing him of breath so that he begged for his own death.

  “JUDAH. You are needed.”

  The voice was still far away in his dreams. Maliku’s voice.

  Iron grated against iron and Judah slowly opened his eyes to see the amber light beyond the bars—torches held by three warriors dressed in black tunics and leather battle armor. Between them stood Maliku, watching him through the opened gate.

  “If you would see Maviah, then you must come peacefully.”

  Judah blinked. Maviah? They had her body? Or she was alive…

  “You must come in peace.”

  He pushed himself up, pulse surging. They were going to take him from the cell?

  Maliku turned to the guards. “Free him.”

  They hesitated, then came in, and when Judah made no sign of resistance, they bound his hands behind his back, unshackled the heavy chain from his ankle, and hauled him to his feet.

  Judah cleared his throat. “Your sister is alive?”

  A moment of silence hung between them.

  “Maviah has never been more alive,” Maliku said. He nodded at the guard. “Bring him.”

  Surrounded by warriors, Judah walked down the corridor in silence, mind crawling back to life, filled with an urgent hope. Maviah was alive.

  At the passage’s end they were joined by two more guards, who led the procession up a flight of stone steps. Judah knew them well from his days as Rami’s warrior, when the palace Marid had been ruled by the Kalb sheikh.

  They passed into light. A ray of sunshine through a window both unnerved and mystified him. He’d forgotten what sunlight felt like. And yet, they would surely return him to the darkness below.

  Then they were at the door leading into the chamber of audience, and then they passed into the large room where Rami bin Malik had once conducted his business with sheikhs from all corners of the desert.

  But his power and wealth now belonged to Saman bin Shariqat, great warrior sheikh of the Thamud. The massive chamber’s walls were covered by long silk drapes fashioned in the colors of the Thamud, yellow and red on black. Thick new carpets from Persia and India softened the fortress floor amid three elaborate pillars.

  The tables were heavy with carved chests, overflowing with jewels and gold coins. Silver trays with matching tea sets from afar were on prominent display, likely gifts from merchants and rulers who’d passed through Dumah on their way to Petra or Egypt or Rome. Exquisitely stamped and appointed leather saddles, each separated by polished swords, daggers, and lances, lined the walls.

  But silver and gold meant nothing to Judah now. He longed to see only one thing.

  There was no sign of Maviah.

  There was only Saman, dressed in the black fringed thobe of his tribe and seated on a large wooden chair banded in silver. On his head, a black agal bound a red-and-yellow headdress. Thick pillows with golden tassels rested on the floor, where those who came for audience would be seated. It appeared Saman had abandoned the customs of the Bedu for the ways of the kings.

  Kahil bin Saman, the son who knew no mercy, stood at the window, hands held loosely behind his back, gazing out at the oasis of Dumah beneath the tall fortress. Judah wondered if this was the same window where he’d thrown Maviah’s son to his death.

  Like a coming storm, Judah’s anger began to gather. And with it, nausea.

  “Leave us,” Maliku ordered.

  The guards left them behind closed doors.

  “Hold your tongue,” Maliku said under his breath. “Trust me.”

  He pushed Judah forward, and with that shove Judah knew the man wore two faces in this room—both Kalb and Thamud.

  Saman watched Judah with piercing eyes, chin planted on the palm of his hand. Kahil turned and walked toward him, studying his frame.

  “I’d nearly forgotten we still had you in the dungeon,” Kahil said. “You are what I do with dung collected on my boot. I can only hope that you will fully appreciate the sound and sight of twenty thousand dying women and children.”

  “Enough!” Saman stood, glaring at his son.

  Kahil dipped his head in respect and backed up.

  Saman stepped off the platform, eyes on Judah.

  “To raid and overthrow is a sheikh’s right in the sands. Did I not crush Rami and take all of his wealth? In the desert did I not subdue those who resisted my power? Am I not the rightful overseer of all the caravans that flow through my city now?” He spoke with sweeping gestures. “Answer me.”

  Judah offered the sheikh a nod, because this much was true.

  “And yet even now they hover, twenty thousand beggars of all tribes, camped like stray dogs in the southern oasis. For a month now. On which winds did this illness infect the desert?”

  “An illness that must be eradicated,” Kahil said absently.

  Maviah. It had to be! No one else could have gathered so many.

  “She calls herself the queen of the desert,” Saman scoffed.

  Judah’s heart pounded.

  “She is no more than a fly to be swatted,” Kahil said.

  Saman’s brow arched. He retreated to his chair, sat heavily, and sighed. “You see what I have,” he said to Judah. “A son who cannot lay down his sword long enough to enjoy his spoil, and a traitor who would give me council.”

  Judah looked at Maliku. What standing did the man have among the Thamud now? A traitor was a traitor, even in the eyes of those he’d benefited.

  “Maliku claims that she will come unarmed.”

  “This
is the expectation of our informant,” Maliku confirmed.

  “Only fools would come unarmed.” Kahil sneered. “But let them come—it will save us a march.”

  “Cutting down twenty thousand unarmed Bedu, twelve thousand of whom are women and children, might be”—Maliku searched for the right word—“misunderstood.” He turned to Saman. “Would you have their blood on your hands, my sheikh?”

  “We’re already drenched in blood!” Kahil said. “What is a few more?”

  “Peace will change the story that is told about the Thamud,” Maliku said. “It will change the tale for generations to come. Peace offered by Saman bin Shariqat of the Thamud. Not by Maviah, who is Kalb.”

  But peace was not in Kahil’s blood.

  “Do you think they will simply vanish into the sands because we offer them peace?” Kahil demanded.

  “They need some compensation for their loss. Many of their sons and daughters have been slain. But this might be a small price to pay for a legacy among the Bedu.”

  Kahil’s face darkened. “They won’t stop until they’ve retaken Dumah!”

  “I only offer my opinion to the great Saman.” Maliku bowed before the sheikh.

  Something had tested and changed Maliku, Judah thought. Here stood a wiser man, tired of bloodshed. Could he be trusted?

  Saman spread his hands. “To slaughter or not to slaughter. What do you, mighty warrior of Rami, have to say to this? Maliku insists that you are the prize Maviah would seek.”

  Judah stared at the sheikh. To think they’d brought him into audience for his advice was absurd. Something else was afoot.

  “Well? Have they cut your tongue out as well?”

  Judah cleared his throat. “Though Maviah is a warrior, she has no thirst for blood.”

  “And what of you?” Saman asked.

  “I only say what I—”

  “Do you have any thirst for blood?”

  Did he? An old, seething rage churned in his bowels. But he dared not betray it.

  “If there’s any thirst left in me, it’s for the blood of those who oppress my people in Palestine.”

  Kahil grinned, brow raised. “And the woman who calls herself queen? You have no thirst for this whore?”

  The rage in Judah’s gut rose, heating his face. But he would not lash out, not until the day when he could drain the blood from both Kahil and his father. That day would come.

  He spoke in a soft tone. “Am I to be ashamed of my love? To sit by the fire once again with a song in my heart and Maviah by my side…I would trade all the swords in the world for one night of peace with her.”

  “You are a fool.”

  “Do not underestimate him,” Saman said. “Bedu like Judah know only how to seek revenge.”

  The sheikh sagged in his seat of power, eyeing Judah with suspicion as he absently twirled strands of his beard.

  “There cannot be two rulers in this desert.” He paused, lost in thought. “We will march tomorrow.”

  Chapter Four

  TWO THOUSAND black tents covered the rolling slopes of sand beyond my tent. I watched tendrils of smoke rise to the sky as women tended fires fueled by camel dung. Beneath a layer of coals and sand they would bake unleavened breads to be spiced, buttered, and rolled with dates. Few men were in sight; they were behind a partition in those same tents, doing what Bedu men did when not hunting or raiding: exchanging embellished news of their past exploits and fearlessly proclaiming the imminent defeat of the Thamud.

  I had to find Saba now. Saba, my tower of strength, who was with my son Talya, now eight. I’d adopted Talya after coming upon him abandoned among the Banu Abysm tribe, the same tribe of my mother, who was now dead.

  If Saba wasn’t by my side, he could be found in the hills alone or with Talya, who had become like a son to him. Politics and conflict offered him no intrigue.

  I descended a sandy slope and approached the small, spring-fed pool that brought life to the reeds and green palms and bushes. The camels were bunched around the drinking trough just south of the spring, or strewn across the sands, searching for stubborn tufts of grass, or sleeping in the sun.

  During the last month, we had slaughtered more than a hundred of the male camels, each drawn by lot. The owner was awarded the most prized meats—liver and head—and the rest was divided among that family’s clan.

  My own she-camel, whom I’d named Zahwah, as white as the brightest sand, would be near my tent, for she loved me and never strayed far. If she was selected for slaughter I would weep, then gratefully give her life to save the children.

  The moment the little ones saw me, they ran to me, leaping with arms swinging high. “Maviah, Maviah, Maviah!” There was Sayd and Salim and Mona and others—I knew them well, most younger than my Talya and so perhaps even more trusting of those who cared for them.

  “Leave her!” Jalilah cried. The old woman’s stained dress was ragged, made of finely woven camel hair worn thin by years of use. Her feet were bare, soles thickened by a life on the sands. With one hand, she steadied a heavy skin of water on her back; with the other she waved at the children, scolding. “Maviah isn’t a goat to be played with!”

  “Let them come, Jalilah.” I smiled and her scowl softened, but I had countered her authority and immediately sought to repair her pride. “Only a moment before you chase them away,” I said, lowering myself to one knee to receive the children.

  Mona reached me first and flung herself into my arms. I kissed her dirty cheek, wondering how many days since she’d washed herself.

  “How beautiful you are, Mona!” I said, kissing her filthy hair. “You are like the morning sun.”

  Then the other children reached me, clambering for as much love and affection.

  “Salim is killing his goat tomorrow,” little Mona said, eyes bright. “We’re having a great feast because Salim is slaughtering the goat!”

  “Oh?” I grinned at Salim, who wore his age with pride, for he was the eldest here, perhaps seven—already a warrior in the making. “Salim has a goat to slaughter?”

  The young boy shrugged, knowing he’d spoken more than he could deliver. “It’s my uncle’s last goat. He says we will eat it soon. And I will kill it with my knife.”

  “Well, won’t that be the day! I will feast with you, Salim. We all will.”

  “Now leave her!” Jalilah scolded, shooing them with her free arm. “You’re children and know nothing! Leave, leave!”

  I gave Salim a nod.

  They scampered away, knowing not to test Jalilah. I felt the full weight of so many lives upon my shoulders.

  I found Saba alone with Talya beyond the spring amid five staggered boulders, arms crossed, shaded by a date palm stripped of its fruit.

  Saba had long ago traded his battle dress for a loose tunic and pants, which looked whiter than they were next to his black skin. His bald head towered over the frame of a small boy with dark curls, dressed nearly identically to his teacher.

  My heart leaped at the sight of Talya. The new name I had chosen for him meant both “child” and “lamb” in Aramaic, the language of Yeshua, because he was small, even for an eight-year-old. And precious.

  I pulled up short on the slope, realizing they hadn’t yet seen me.

  “And what do we call it?” Saba asked in his soft, rumbling tone.

  “The kingdom,” Talya said.

  How sweet was Talya’s young voice. I slipped between two boulders and watched, unseen, treasuring these gifts of mine to love.

  “Which kingdom?” Saba settled back against one of the boulders, arms still folded.

  Talya answered without pause, having learned Saba’s teachings well. “The kingdom of heaven. There are two—the realm of heaven and the realm of earth. But only the realm of heaven is eternal, with no beginning or end.”

  “And where is this eternal realm called heaven?”

  “Everywhere,” Talya answered, using his little arms to demonstrate. “Inside, outside, high and low and wide
and deep.”

  “Even among the Thamud?”

  “Yes, but they cannot see it. They are blind.”

  “Why are they blind?”

  “Because they see only with the little eyes in their skulls. They are blind like Hamil.”

  “Hamil is blinded only by old age and too much sun. Perhaps he sees the kingdom of heaven better than any of us. But blind, yes. Excellent!”

  Saba clapped once, straightened, and tossed Talya a date from his pocket.

  “And how sweet is this gift of earth, for which we are eternally grateful.”

  Talya stuffed the date in his mouth, then clapped as well. “How sweet it is!”

  Saba chuckled. “But not nearly as wonderful as Talya, who has opened the eyes of his heart so he may see more than the realm of earth.”

  A lump gathered in my throat.

  Saba had become a new man in the two years since we’d left Petra to gather the oppressed in Arabia. While I tended my place as mother to all, Saba often retreated to the sands to quiet his mind in prayer and contemplation. In this way he exchanged his own understanding of the world for a deep intimacy with the Father. This was his process of repentance, the way of attaining metanoia, which is a changed mind—a mind transformed and made greater.

  He was obsessed with the path to truly know the Father and his realm. This, Saba believed, is what Yeshua meant when he spoke of entering the eternal realm of heaven.

  He often called this path the forgotten Way of Yeshua, because that Way into the realm, so opposite the ways of the world, was difficult to keep in mind, even for those who had once seen.

  Saba paced, hands on his hips, gazing at the horizon, wearing a track in the sand.

  “As I have often said, to follow in the Way is to find salvation from the storms that rise to crush us. So this demands a question. How?”

  “How?”

  “Yes, how does one now walk in the eternal kingdom of heaven, which sets us free from anxiety?”

  “By believing in Yeshua,” my son said.

  “Yes. But what does this mean? Tell me.”

  Talya absently mirrored Saba’s pacing, though with far shorter strides. The sight of them together in this way melted my heart.