Palace of Darkness

by Tracy L. Higley

  “You drink blood and eat flesh, it is said.” She flushed. “You have no gods, no priests, no temples. You do not sacrifice. For all this, it is believed you are enemies of society, haters of mankind.”

  “And is this what you believe?” Malik’s gaze on her was soft, full of love.

  She spread her arms to the chamber. “How can I?”

  Julian spoke beside her. “There is so much truth to share with you, Cassia. When you are ready.”

  She nodded, unsure if she would ever be ready.

  On the road back to Zeta’s home, she and Julian walked alone, leaving the rest of the church still talking with Malik.

  Cassia moved slowly, still feeling the effects of the warm and joyous people, walking as though asleep and dreaming. Firelight at the edges of rock-wall homes winked at them as they walked, and somewhere in the distance an old woman chanted prayers to the goddess al-‘Uzza, a deity very different from Julian’s. The singsong chant rode on the breeze, and Cassia shivered.

  Julian wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He did not speak, and Cassia was not yet ready to ask her questions, so they walked in silence past quiet homes with their hidden gardens spilling out the scent of white jasmine and warm fruit. She relaxed under his embrace.

  If Alexander were waiting for her at home, she would have declared this the perfect night.

  “I have a gift for you.” Julian reached for a pouch tied to his waist. He stopped in the street to pull something from it, no bigger than his palm. Pale moonlight caught on the tiny white sculpture, revealing intricate details.

  “A white tiger!” She took it from him and turned it in his hands. “How beautiful.”

  “I made it for Alexander. For you to give to him when he is returned to you.”

  Cassia stroked the tiger. Julian had known of Alexander’s great love for animals from the stories he had drawn from her. She blinked back tears and smiled up at him. “Thank you, Julian. He will love it.”

  Ahead, a stocky figure walked toward them out of the shadows. Cassia had the passing thought that perhaps she should feel fear, but her heart was too full.

  Until she saw his face.

  Yehosef, the old gladiator she’d paid to train her, showed relief at the sight of her, but Cassia’s stomach churned.

  “Ah, I am glad to see you safe, my Cassia.” He extended his muscled arms. “When you did not come—”

  “I am sorry. I was . . . detained.”

  He glanced at Julian and winked. “Yes, I see. But I was worried.”

  She smiled. “You are a good man, Yehosef. I thank you for your concern.”

  He bowed. “Then I shall see you soon?”

  Cassia swallowed, aware of Julian’s growing coldness. “Yes, soon. Thank you.”

  Yehosef disappeared into the night, and Julian crossed his arms over his chest. “Who is your friend?” His voice was stony.

  She tucked a stray end of hair beneath her head covering. “An old man I visit, nothing more.”

  “He is a gladiator.”

  Cassia glanced up at him, surprised by his insight. “An old man like that?”

  “He once was, at least. Now I would guess he trains others gladiators.”

  She dropped her head. “Yes, yes, I think he does.”

  “And he is training you.” Again, that cold voice, like the icy stars had poured themselves into him. His insight amazed her. Did he know her so well?

  “Julian, please understand—”

  He held up a hand and shook his head, his lips tight. “I do not want to hear it.”

  “It’s not that I don’t trust your plan to retrieve Alexander.” She reached out and grabbed at his tunic, but he jerked away.

  “It’s not about trust. I don’t care if you learn to fight well. Perhaps you should. But the arena!” He swiped his hands together in a gesture of contempt. “I will have nothing to do with the arena!”

  With that, he spun and stalked away, leaving her alone to watch him disappear into the darkness. Cassia feared she had alienated the one person whose friendship she most valued.

  TWENTY-TWO

  HAGIRU NEEDED THE POWER TONIGHT.

  She hurried from the palace, feeling as though the desert jackals snapped at her heels. Something was not right. Some contrary power worked against her from somewhere, she knew not where. Though she suspected.

  She moved through darkness alone, needing no slaves for the short walk, past the baths complex to the Temple of al-‘Uzza. A narrow road led from the street level up to the terrace of the temple and was lined with richly decorated porticoes that housed all manner of sculpted figures peering out as she passed.

  The religious life of Petra drew on the traditions of many surrounding regions, from northern Arabia, from Edom, Syria, Egypt. And all of it strongly influenced by the Greeks. Her patron Dushara was called Zeus by the Greeks, and al-‘Uzza, whose temple she approached, was the Greek’s Aphrodite and the Roman’s Venus, goddess of fertility and abundance.

  Yes, there were many gods, known by many names, and tonight the voices whispered and snarled, a shivering confusion she must sift through to find the voice she knew best, the one that calmed her fears and filled her with the power.

  The cavernous temple swallowed her into its shadowy depths and pulled her forward into the cella to the altar, where a fire had been laid though not yet lit. This room, with its deep niches and sculpted columns, had been painted with all manner of frescoes—tendrils of vines curled around columns and human busts merged with other-worldly animals. The zodiac painted upon the floor held truths too deep to contemplate tonight.

  Hagiru stood before the horned altar, caressing the smooth black-and-white marble with eyes closed and head tipped backward, listening, listening, and trying to calm her anxious thoughts.

  She heard the scrape of the priest’s feet and opened her eyes.

  The little man bowed and backed away. “I will prepare the sacrifice.”

  Hagiru felt her arms tingle with warmth. “I want to watch.” She followed the priest to the stone slab in the antechamber, a slightly raised rectangle stained with the blood of a thousand animals.

  Two well-muscled slaves led a knock-kneed calf out of the shadows, tugging on the grimy rope that bound it. The frightened creature’s hooves clicked in a dance of terror on the stone floor, but the slaves pulled until the calf stood on the slab. With a deftness borne of practice, they swept the calf onto its side and bared its tawny neck to the priest’s knife. The priest paused only a moment over the artery, then brought his knife across, smooth and swift.

  Hagiru’s body went cold, then very warm.

  Fire-red blood spurted from the cut and the calf shuddered and went still. The priest caught the blood in a bronze basin, and the bowl filled with the sticky warmth.

  Hagiru ran her tongue over her lips and sighed, waiting for the calm she sought but did not yet feel.

  Only minutes later, she stood as near the fiery altar as she dared, lifting silent adoration to Dushara and begging him to speak.

  Tonight she needed more than power. She needed wisdom.

  That girl, the peasant mother of Aretas’s whelp, had not only remained in Petra, she had aligned herself with the enemy. Hagiru had pretended in the courtyard with the girl and her champion that she had not noticed the authority that flowed from him, protecting the girl from her dark power. But she noticed. And she had been frightened. Dushara had a firm hold on Petra, but there were some, like the newcomer with Cassia, who served another god, one who also wielded power. And Hagiru was jealous for Petra’s god, that he not share the city with another.

  The flames crackled and popped, and the calf’s flesh sizzled in the heat. She stared into the fire, seeing there the faces of the peasant woman, of her protector, even of the old man Malik, who led people in defiance of Dushara. She watched as their faces smoked and blackened, the burning flesh curling upon itself and sizzling like the fatty flesh of the calf.

  And with those thoughts, th
e cacophony of voices quieted and one voice spoke clearly among the host. A whisper at first, but she latched onto it and turned her heart to it, welcoming the voice and its power into her very soul.

  The edges of her vision blurred and shifted, as though the walls crawled with spiders, and she smiled, for this was how it nearly always began.

  Hagiru studied the yellow flames, the calf’s red blood poured on the white altar stones, the bronze bowl tipped on its side. She stepped near enough to run two fingers along the bloody stones, then waved them through the flames themselves, but felt no pain.

  “Dushara,” she whispered into the darkness. “Fill me with your power. Teach me what to do.”

  And then he was there. Beside her, behind her, within her, his low voice like the cold tongue of the underworld, his words reassuring and instructive.

  Hagiru closed her eyes and surrendered to the knowledge. She saw Dushara’s enemies ranging before her mind’s eye. The followers of the Way, the Jews who lived among them. Malik. Cassia.

  “Yes.” She nodded. “I understand.”

  She feared Dushara’s withdrawal and clutched at the filling, pleading for wisdom on the problem that plagued her most.

  “The boy. What must I do about the boy?”

  For in truth, it was power Hagiru craved, and the boy was a severe threat to that power. Rabbel was dying, that much was certain. And when he did, Obadas would be king. Too young to rule, she would be appointed regent over him in the age-old custom, and she would have complete power over the kingdom of Nabataea.

  But the boy, he held a more legitimate claim to the throne.

  And if he were made king . . . Hagiru shuddered. The peasant woman could be made his regent.

  She had been fiercely loyal to Dushara, body and soul, since he had granted her strongest desire years ago, and he had taught her well that power is everything. Once she had believed in love. But love was nothing.

  “Tell me what I should do,” she begged again.

  When the answer blew over her like a hot breeze that incited the altar flames, she lifted her hands and let it carry her to a place of peace.

  Sometime later, after she had washed the sticky blood from her hands, she entered the palace courtyard, still brightly lit with flaming torches, where Alexander played near the central fountain pool.

  Bethea lounged nearby, barely watching the boy, her heavy-lidded eyes nearly closed.

  Hagiru approached the boy in silence, and he did not notice her, so taken was he with a small lizard that darted around the courtyard’s square limestones. His little laugh scraped across her senses like rough sand.

  She reached a hand toward his gaunt neck. So small. So easily broken.

  Bethea shifted in her chair behind her, and Hagiru dropped her hand.

  Across the courtyard, Obadas tramped out of the back hall. His attention was on something in his hands, and Hagiru chose to slip away, to the shadowy colonnade where the torchlight did not reach.

  Whatever Obadas held, he lost interest in it when he saw Alexander and tossed it into the fountain. Alexander greeted Obadas with that small, high voice Hagiru had come to loathe.

  Her son circled the fountain where Alexander played. From this distance, with their matching white tunics and red belts and their similar dark skin, they could be mistaken for brothers.

  “Shouldn’t you be in your bed, baby?” Obadas’s heavy lips curled into a smile.

  Alexander glanced at Bethea, whose eyes had now closed, and shrugged. “It is not so late.”

  Obadas stepped behind Alexander and smacked the back of his head. “Too late for babies to be awake.”

  Hagiru stifled a laugh. Clever boy.

  Alexander ignored Obadas, but even from the colonnade Hagiru could see the downturn of his lips. He seemed unsurprised by the smack, and Hagiru assumed he was accustomed to the treatment. So much the better. Obadas shared her distaste for the usurper.

  “What have you got there?” Obadas followed Alexander’s attention to the stones at his feet.

  “It’s a tiny lizard!” Alexander spoke as though Obadas’s taunts were already forgotten and he was ready to share his pet.

  Obadas shuffled over, looked down at the ground, and shrugged. Then he lifted a heavy foot and stomped it down onto the stones.

  “No!” Alexander’s cry came too late.

  Obadas lifted his sandal, then scraped it over the stones, laughing. “Look. It has green blood!”

  Alexander turned away, his back to Hagiru, which frustrated her as she wished to see his grief.

  “Obadas!”

  Rabbel’s voice across the courtyard startled Hagiru.

  Obadas jumped as well. “Yes, Father?”

  Rabbel strode toward the two, his white robes fluttering behind him. “Leave the boy alone.”

  He reached the fountain, said something Hagiru could not hear, and Obadas trotted away, as though dismissed. His scowl reached across to where Hagiru stood, still concealed.

  Bethea, too, was cast off with a flick of Rabbel’s head. Hagiru did not miss the look of annoyance from the girl. It was not the first of such displays recently. Rabbel sat on the edge of the fountain pool and leaned his head toward the brat.

  “What has Obadas done now?” Rabbel’s words came barely loud enough for her to hear.

  Alexander pointed to the stones and whined about the lizard.

  Rabbel pulled the boy into an embrace. “We will get you a dozen lizards. And put them all in a cage where you can play with them all day. How will that be?”

  Alexander nodded and pulled away. “That would be good. But this one will still stay killed.”

  Rabbel sighed. “Yes, I am afraid there is nothing we can do about that. Obadas was very cruel.”

  Hagiru’s body felt heavy with hatred. His own son tossed aside, and this obnoxious half-breed welcomed into the king’s affection!

  She strode from the colonnade and inclined her head in greeting for her husband.

  Rabbel looked up from the boy, then whispered something to him and patted his back. The boy glanced at her, then ran from the courtyard without a backward look.

  Rabbel stood and Hagiru swept up close to him, close enough to let him feel her power.

  They were not often completely alone as they were now, and the feeling was a strange one for Hagiru. She forgot her purpose for a moment.

  Rabbel stepped even closer to her, their robes twining together. He studied her eyes, then leaned into her, his breath warm on her neck.

  Hagiru’s heartbeat suspended for a moment at the unexpected closeness. She felt herself lean toward him.

  Then Rabbel sniffed. “You smell like sacrifice.” His words revealed the reason for his approach. He took a step away.

  Hagiru swallowed and straightened her shoulders, disgusted with herself. “Yes.” Her voice was low and cold. “The gods have been speaking to me tonight.”

  Rabbel’s glance was both interested and fearful. “And what do they say?”

  She turned away, playing out the power of the moment. “They have much to say about the future of the kingdom.”

  Rabbel grabbed at her arm and spun her toward him. “Tell me. Will the Romans attack?”

  In the flickering torchlight his face seemed to lose fifteen years, and he was once again the young and brash king with whom her father had made a favorable alliance that included one naive and hopeful daughter. A long time ago. Hagiru forced herself to abandon that thread of thought.

  “The Romans have taken most of the world. It will not be easy to save Nabataea.”

  Rabbel’s gaze strayed toward the front of the palace. “And if my people were to decide, they would hand over my kingdom for the sake of peace.”

  “They are weak. The gods will favor strength.”

  “And have the gods given you knowledge?”

  She shrugged one shoulder and walked past him to the fountain, where she sat on the edge and ran a hand through the cool water. Rabbel trusted her connection
to the gods, and it gave her welcome power over him. “They have not told me how we should defend the kingdom. Only how we can gain their favor and their protection.”

  He sat beside her, and she did not miss the grimace of pain as he did so. “Whatever the gods desire, this we will give them.”

  Hagiru turned her face away to hide the smile of triumph.

  “The god of Petra has no wish to be displaced by the gods of Rome. Already the Jews have brought their god here, and these Christians refuse to worship at all.”

  “I have always felt that tolerance—”

  “Weakness!” Hagiru turned the force of her anger on Rabbel and felt him bend in her hands, like clay in the hands of a potter. The difference between the king’s pliability and old Malik’s resoluteness ran across her thoughts, like a rodent scurrying out of a corner. She chose to focus on Rabbel’s malleability.

  He dropped his head. “What can I do to please the gods?”

  She let the question hang unanswered for a moment. Everything depended on what came next. She must not fail. “Dushara requires a sacrifice.”

  He brightened and lifted his head. “I shall send a hundred bulls—”

  “It is not the blood of bulls Dushara desires.”

  His brow furrowed. “Calves?”

  Hagiru sighed as though the truth brought her pain and lowered her head in sadness. “Dushara wishes to see that you are truly devoted to him, above all others. That you would sacrifice something of great value to gain his favor.”

  Rabbel scratched his head. “Surely not the harvest. The people would not survive—”

  She shook her head, then patted his thigh in feigned sympathy. “Dushara wants the boy.”

  Rabbel tilted his head and looked at her, as though struck dumb. Finally his lips opened. “Obadas?”

  Hagiru’s blood ran cold. “No!” She forced the hysteria from her voice. “No. Dushara feels the newly found son of Aretas has claimed more of your affection than the gods. He wishes you to prove your loyalty.”

  Rabbel’s shoulders tightened and the line between his eyebrows deepened. “How?”

  “At the Festival of Grain. Sacrifice the boy.”