“Alexander!” She could do nothing but shout his name, and her body seemed as though it would shake into a thousand tiny fragments.
He was retreating from her now, his light eyes still wide with terror. His mouth opened in a small O, and his bottom lip trembled. “Mama? Where are you going?”
“I am not leaving!”
But the gap between mother and son widened.
Cassia twisted and kicked and even pulled free for a moment, but the slave ran at her and swept her from her feet.
“Alexander. Alexander!”
She hit the palace floor but barely felt the pain. Even the kick he landed in her midsection did not slow her. She scrambled across the marble toward Alex’s feet and reached a hand out to him.
Too far.
Another kick. Pulled to standing. She felt the yellow silk rip in the slave’s hands. She leaned away from the tearing fabric, thinking to get free. An arm around her waist lifted her off her feet.
She kicked backward, connected with shins. The slave cursed in her ear.
The room was a bloodred haze now, blurred by fear and anger and terror. She thrashed in his arms. Her hair tangled around her face.
She screamed, but her voice had gone hoarse. How many times had she screamed already? Above her scream she heard the queen’s laughter.
And he was gone.
She searched the room and could not find his sweet face. They had taken him away. Taken her son away. Alexander!
Still thrashing, she felt the room spin. The slave dragged her backward.
And then they were in the halls, then the portico outside the great palace, and then stone steps rushed up to meet her and she clenched her eyes and brought her arms up to protect her face. She fell and bounced. Her knees and arms met each step with an angry jolt, until she reached the platform between the steps and rolled to a stop at the base of the huge djinn block.
She was still for only a moment before she scrambled to her knees and retched.
When her stomach had exhausted itself, she fell against the djinn block, godforsaken, bruised and bloody, and alone.
Alone.
THIRTEEN
THE SUN DESCENDED AND STILL CASSI A LEANED AGAINST the djinn block, her eyes on the palace entrance as though Alexander would skip down its steps and into her arms.
Where else could she go?
She shivered in the shadow of the stone as blood and sweat dried on her skin. She grew fearful as the shadows lengthened. Fearful of the night, and of the palace slaves who might come and find her on the steps and beat her again.
So she crawled forward, loose pebbles scraping her knees, until she felt she could stand, then stumbled down the second set of steps into the street and retraced her path through the city until she reached the Nymphaeum.
Only a few women drew water, late as it was, and they mostly ignored her. She did not blame them. Her torn and bloodied dress, her bruised arms and swollen lip—they shouted to anyone who looked that she was an outcast.
At the edge of the fountain pool, she cupped her hands and filled them with water, then tried to wash the blood from her arms. The deep scratches burned. She did not even know how they had gotten there.
When she had washed her arms and face, she sat on the stone edge of the pool and faced the street.
Alexander is gone.
It seemed to be the only thought she could form. And there seemed to be nothing left for her.
It is what I deserve. She had always thought Alexander was a gift from the gods, one they had mistakenly bestowed upon her, a weak and worthless slave girl who did not merit such a gift.
And now Alexander would be loved and protected by royalty and brought up to claim the kingship of Nabataea. The thought did not surprise her. It seemed fitting for the boy that he was. She should only be surprised she had been allowed to have him at all, even for a short time.
And now, now I am no longer needed.
She felt hollowed out, as though all that had made her human had been removed.
Alexander would be better off in the palace. It was her only solace.
And she? Where would she be?
You will be dead to him, Hagiru had said. Yes, perhaps it would be best if Cassia were dead.
A shadow passed over her. Death had come to take her even then. But it was the shadow of a man, not a specter, and she looked up to find the man who had restored the water earlier that day leaning over her, his brow furrowed.
“What has happened to you?” He tried to lift her head. “Who did this?”
Cassia said nothing. She did not have the strength.
He reached for her arm, and she jumped away from his touch.
“All is well.” He spoke softly, as one might to a wounded animal. “I will not hurt you.”
She dropped her eyes, as it was too difficult to hold her head up.
“Let me take you to your home. Tell me where you live.”
Cassia sighed. “Alexander is my home. But he is gone.”
“Your boy?” She sensed he searched the fountain-house courtyard. “Where is he?”
Again, she could not summon strength enough to answer.
“Where is Alexander?” The man’s voice pressed her now, more urgent, concerned.
Julian. That is his name. “They took him.” The words escaped on another sigh and seemed to suck away her life. She swayed where she sat, and a moment later felt herself swept into the man’s arms and cradled against his chest. She leaned into his solid shoulder and sighed, grateful beyond words to be carried from this place.
“I must take you somewhere. Tell me where you have friends to care for you.”
Cassia closed her eyes. “I am alone.”
He walked toward the street and her head bumped his shoulder. “You must know someone in Petra.”
“Malik. I know only the old man Malik.”
She was vaguely aware that he moved through the streets, asking anyone who passed to direct him to Malik, an old man.
Eventually he seemed to get an answer, then walked with more purpose. Soon they climbed, and she dared not open her eyes to see how narrow the ledge, nor how high their destination.
The sound of music drifted to her, and within minutes she felt they had passed into a rock-hewn chamber like the place she had spent the night. The music was louder here, though the voices were subdued and melancholy and sang of fortresses and towers, which seemed quite strange to Cassia.
She opened her eyes. They stood at the open end of what appeared to be a large tomb cut into the rock. A fire burned at the ledge, and the burial slots were only dark eyes in the back of the chamber. The central part of the chamber was filled with people reclining on low couches around the three-sided stone table, with their eyes turned toward the two new arrivals.
“I am looking for Malik,” her rescuer said.
Cassia lifted her head and recognized Zeta and Talya, and the two women got to their feet quickly, followed by Malik, and hurried forward.
“You!” Julian said. “You are Malik?”
Malik paused only a moment, the corner of his mouth lifting in a quick smile. “Did I not tell you we would meet again?” But then his attention was on Cassia. “What has happened?”
She squirmed to be set down, but Julian held her still, until the two women led them forward and several people vacated the couch to make room. Julian laid her gently on the cushion and stood.
“She hasn’t said much.” He shook his head. “But something has happened to her boy. She says someone has taken him.”
Malik knelt and brought his lined face close to hers. The white fringe of hair around his bald head glowed in the firelight. “Who took Alexander, Cassia?”
She had thought herself drained of all tears, but they welled again. “The queen. That terrible Hagiru. She took my boy! And had me thrown from the palace.”
Malik ran a hand over her head. “I feared as much. Rest now. Eat and rest. And then we will talk.”
Malik stood
and turned to the water restorer. “So you have been brought to us already, eh? What is your name?”
The man seemed to have weakened, and Cassia felt a flicker of shame. He should not have tired himself on her behalf.
“Julian. My name is Julian.”
His voice was thick with emotion, which Cassia did not understand.
“Welcome, Julian,” Malik said. “You are right where you belong.”
Julian sank to the couch beside her, almost as though his legs had given way. Malik smiled and patted the younger man’s shoulder.
The sun dipped low enough then to spill its rays into the tomb, lighting the chamber and the faces of its inhabitants. There were perhaps thirty of them, Cassia guessed, and each one had turned a curious and friendly face on the two guests. She was conscious then of her filthy clothes, her beaten body, even the odor of sweat and blood she carried.
But over the next few hours, she found all of her needs attended, and as her body was cared for, her heart clung to a bit of peace as well, though she did not understand its source. She tried to read the hearts of the group, but her fatigue left her baffled. The women bathed her cuts, fed her well, even took her to a small, connected chamber and replaced the ripped yellow silk with a clean white tunic and red belt. She returned to sit beside Julian, who watched her with the protectiveness of an older brother.
There was more singing, with words she did not recognize, and after the meal was shared, there was a passing of wine and bread, which seemed to have special meaning to the strange group that was not a family but certainly behaved as one. She felt the warmth and joy and comfort of the place. A severe contrast with the cold throne room.
Malik led the group, and they responded to him with love and respect, as Zeta and Talya had in their home.
The meal was removed, strange prayers were offered up to an unnamed god, and then the people dispersed into the darkness, each offering a blessing upon her as they left. Soon she shared the tomb chamber with only Malik, Julian, and Talya, who still tended the fire near the ledge.
Malik sat upon the edge of her cushion, and Julian had not left her side since they arrived. “Are you ready to speak of what has happened?”
She twined trembling hands against her chest, a nervous habit, then forced them to her lap. With a deep breath, she related the terrible truth, from Damascus to the Nabataean palace.
“But he is better off now,” she finished, the words catching in her throat. “He will be taken care of.”
Julian pushed off the couch and paced through the cave-like room, his feet scuffling. “That is foolishness, Cassia! Alexander belongs with his mother!”
Malik smiled.
“But who am I to claim him? I was not even Aretas’s wife.” She hung her head. “I do not have any power here.”
Julian stopped his pacing to stand in front of her. “You are the mother of the future king! That is who you are! And do not tell me you have no power. I saw it in you, even at the Nymphaeum when I brought your son down from the ledge. You may be small, but you are strong!”
Cassia studied the man. He had the bearing and speech of nobility. Both his appearance and his passion of expression marked him a Roman. Why had he come to Petra? I do not want yet again to be drawn to his kind of strength.
An irrational desire to weep against his shoulder washed over her, and she shook her head. “How will I fight against the royal house?”
Malik touched her arm. “Julian is right, Cassia.” He frowned, and the lines deepened on either side of his mouth. “There is an evil in that palace. Forces you know nothing of. They are at work to keep the people in bondage. You must not leave Alexander in the hands of the queen.” His gaze bore into her, and she felt again that strange sense of strength passing into her.
Wanting to escape those eyes, she struggled to her feet and walked to the open ledge.
They were high above the city again, and bright moonlight shone on the cliffs, on long flights of steps, on rooftop gardens and terraces and caves, so strangely intermingled in this place. Their ledge looked toward the palace. Toward Alexander.
Julian was right. She had brought them across the desert, and she would not lose her son here. Aretas had not defeated her, and neither would his family.
She felt the blood flow into her legs, her arms, her hands, and she raised a hand toward the palace, framing the building between her thumb and forefinger as though she could crush it there.
She dropped her hand and turned back to the two men, who watched her from within the chamber. As appealing as Julian was, with his dark wavy hair and generous Roman lips, she would not give herself to a man again, nor ask him to do what she could do alone.
“I will get my son back.” The words echoed back to her and seemed stronger than she had spoken them. “I will get him back.”
Beside her, Talya stood and held out a small parcel. The yellow silk.
Cassia took it from her, turned it over in her hands, and thought of all the times Aretas had forced her to wear it, to be a playing piece in his deadly games.
Never again.
With a look at Malik and Julian, and a chin lifted in defiance, Cassia dropped the yellow silk into the fire and let it burn.
FOURTEEN
CASSIA HAD BEEN SENT OFF WITH TALYA TO TAKE SHELTER with her and her mother. Julian followed Malik to his home—despite his misgivings.
The elderly Nabataean ambled through the dark streets, into the crowded section of housing where the mud-brick homes were built close together to maximize the shade. Julian walked beside him, grateful for his hospitality. But did it come at the cost of a conversation he was not willing to begin?
But Malik was silent, and they reached the entrance of his home without words. The house turned a blank face to the street, as all houses did, but once through the doorway, it was Julian who spoke, not bothering to hide his surprise.
“Malik, you old goat, you are a nobleman!”
Malik chuckled and led Julian through a wide passageway, into his central courtyard, its corners lit with brazier fires to welcome the master home. “Petra is not Rome. We are not so consumed with nobility in Arabia.”
“Even so”—Julian waved a hand over the expansive courtyard garden, with its bubbling central fountain and greenery, glossy with moonlight and firelight—“I believe you have money growing from your ears.”
Malik shrugged. “I will show you to a room. We will talk of true riches in the morning.”
The house had been expanded by using central pillars and supporting walls that could sustain upper stories. Bright frescoes lined every wall, combining the best art of both East and West.
Julian slept well in the luxurious bed, with its carved wooden headboard and plush bedding. He awoke early and found Malik already sitting in the garden, a steaming bowl of wine in his gnarled hands. The old man smiled and held up the bowl.
“Come, sit with me.”
Julian’s assessment of the previous night had been accurate. The villa was as grand as his parents’ villa in Rome, with a garden lined by colonnaded walkways for shade and filled with exotic plants. Oleander in reds, pinks, and whites hugged the painted walls, and their realistic scenes of waterside and woodland fooled the eye, enhancing the coolness and size of the garden.
Julian dropped to the stone bench beside Malik and folded his arms across his chest. They sat beneath a trellis draped with grapevines. “Yesterday you spoke of work I might find.” Julian smiled and lowered his head. “I suppose if I want to keep eating, I must do a bit of work, eh?”
A servant appeared with another bowl of wine and placed it in Julian’s hands. He sipped it quickly and burned his tongue.
Malik looked sideways at him. “I would not guess you are much accustomed to labor.”
Julian bristled. “I can work as hard as the next man!”
“Yes.” Malik laughed softly, shifted on the bench, and grew serious. “Tell me of Rome, Julian.”
He rolled his shoulders to releas
e tension. Malik’s abrupt manner and apparent knowledge of all that concerned him were unnerving.
Malik did not wait for an answer. “I hear it grows dangerous for our people.”
Julian looked away, focused on the tub that sent grapevines over their heads. “Rome is a beautiful city, and all who live there are blessed by the gods.”
Malik growled in apparent frustration with Julian’s answer. “How long will you continue to deny that you are a follower of the Way?”
Julian dropped his shoulders and turned to the old man, searching his eyes. It was clear his attempt at deception was futile with Malik. “You see things, don’t you, old man?”
Malik half smiled. “More than I wish to see at times.” He sobered. “So tell me of Rome.”
Julian shrugged and sipped more of his wine. “Not the best place for a follower these days.”
Malik nodded. “I have had letters. From other elders, in Syria and Alexandria. The Roman provinces feel the reach of the emperor in ways we have yet escaped here in Arabia. They are holding strong but say that Trajan is beginning to find ways to dispose of believers.”
Julian could not bring himself to look at Malik. His hold on a casual tone was very thin, and he feared the old man would break it with his soul-searching eyes.
“The blood of martyrs begins to flow again, as it did in the old days under Nero.” He took a deep breath to try to release the pressure on his heart. He was unsuccessful.
“You have lost someone.”
Julian set his bowl aside, stood, and plucked a leaf from the grapevine, then ripped it apart. “It does nothing to speak of it.”
“Hmm.”
“For now I am a resident of your fine city. Far from the reach, as you say, of Emperor Trajan. And I must find work if I am here to stay.”
“I know this guilt you feel, Julian. I know it well.” Malik’s voice strayed away, causing Julian to turn back to the man. His head was bowed. “For some of us, the days of Nero are not so far removed.”
Julian sat beside him again, finding no words.
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