Palace of Darkness

by Tracy L. Higley

  “A wise man.”

  “With a foolish son. I brought undue attention and danger to my family through my actions.”

  “This is why you came to Petra?”

  He laughed. “Yes. Ironic, isn’t it? I fled Rome for the sake of my family’s safety. And ended up here, where I have only done the same thing again. Brought danger and even death to the people I love.”

  The street had grown quiet, the noonday sun driving merchants and laborers under shade for a respite. Malik was quiet also for a few minutes.

  “Julian, Vita’s death was not your fault.”

  “She would not have been there—”

  “Perhaps not. But she would not have been taken home to eternity if the Lord had not allowed it. The death of His saints is precious in His sight.”

  “Well, I see it differently. And I would imagine her family does as well.”

  “God has them in His hand, Julian. But there is more at issue here than even a family’s grief. The question is whether you will become the man God calls you to be and allow Him to use your past and even your mistakes to further His kingdom rather than using them as excuses to hold back.”

  Julian shot to his feet and turned on Malik. “You have done nothing but push me into places I do not wish to go since I arrived here, old man! How many times must I explain that I am no great leader, nor will I ever be?”

  Malik opened his mouth to speak yet again, but Julian was tired of talk, tired of guilt. Tired of Petra. He held his hands in front of him to stop the flow of Malik’s words, then spun and walked away.

  If only he could be anywhere but here, in this city of stone.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  MALIK PICKED HIS WAY THROUGH THE MAIN CITY STREET, barely noticing the shoppers whose shoulders he bumped, forgetting to step around the piles left by rude camel drivers who did not keep their animals to the gutter. His feet carried him to the Great House, empty of council members today, but his thoughts carried him to the future and left him feeling despair.

  How can this boy lead, Jesus? He is so young.

  The answer came swift and sure. Think of My ministry at his age.

  “Yes, but You were the Son of God!” Malik crossed the first courtyard of the Great House, drawing the curious look of a servant who scrubbed the courtyard floor.

  He entered the quiet room where the council met and crossed to his customary place in the half circle of seats that rose around a central platform. The room was desolate, empty, and the sunlight filtered in without much strength, leaving the room gray and shadowy. Malik rubbed his knuckles across the rough stone of his seat and slumped backward.

  He felt friendless and misunderstood in this place, and he thought of Julian’s father back in Rome, taking his stand in the Senate. The thought gave him little comfort. Rome was a long way off, and here in Petra, Malik was alone.

  I need more time, Lord. More time to establish Your church here, to strengthen the believers. I am not ready to pass it to another. Not yet.

  He felt the Lord had things to say to him, but he didn’t want to hear. He closed his spiritual ears to the small Voice and instead filled the council house with his own loud voice. “Not yet!”

  The words echoed in the hollow shell of the room, and with the uttering of them, a deep and pervading sense of fatigue fell on him. Yes, he was tired, very tired.

  Had he achieved all he had hoped in his lifetime? Had it been enough? The question brought him once again to Julian. The boy longed for impact and importance in a way that was different from his father’s quiet influence in Rome. Not a better way, necessarily. But different. And Malik knew that God wanted to give Julian that desire, but only if he could surrender his own need for achievement, for acclaim and approval, that drove him even yet. Julian would have to become a servant before he could ever be a leader.

  And he will.

  Malik was unsure if the words were the Lord’s or his own, or if perhaps they at last were speaking in harmony.

  Step outside.

  Malik obeyed. On the steps of the Great House, he paused, waiting for more direction.

  The High Place.

  Malik turned reluctant eyes upward, to the flat top of the nearest mountain, the place where evil acts were performed in the name of Petra’s demon-gods.

  The place where I will show Myself strong.

  The red cliff of the mountain formed the backdrop of the amphitheatre on the other side of this city, but from this side, the cliff was a sandy incline of sparse trees and bushes, with a lone track weaving upward past carved tombs and family caves. Malik’s gaze traveled the direction of the path until he scanned the flat surface of the mount. He was much too far away to see the altar he knew rested there, nor could he see the obelisks that had been carved as betyls for the gods, resting places for them where the people could worship.

  He squinted when he spotted a puff of smoke rising from the lip of the plateau. Was there, even now, a sacrifice being offered on the altar?

  The sun scorched his eyes, and he lifted a hand to shade them and watched as the smoke continued to rise, to become a billowing cloud that grew and spread over the High Place.

  And then the feeling came, that feeling of the knowing, only it was not a prophecy, nor even words spoken to his spirit from the Lord. It was only the smoke.

  Understanding filled him. A vision. He must watch and try to understand.

  The smoke lifted and spread until it covered all of the mountaintop, and then flames ignited. Like a brush fire tearing across a field of dry wheat, the flames roared over the High Place in a mighty, purifying blaze. Malik watched, mouth agape, as the mountain’s red stone ran in rivers like blood, as though the High Place had not only been burned but ripped open and now bled to death before his eyes.

  The place where I will show Myself strong.

  Yes, Lord. Yes.

  The words lifted from his spirit like a song, and he felt a rending of something within him, something that had been tight and fearful and secret. I am ready, Jesus. I am ready.

  The vision evaporated like a desert mirage and the High Place of Sacrifice returned to its solid form, but Malik’s heart had become pliant and his soul rejoiced in the knowledge that Jesus’ name would soon be proclaimed before all of Petra, and he was to play a part.

  He needed to call the people together. They must be prepared for what was to come, for the time that would call on each of them to surrender, to speak, even to shout.

  Malik hurried from the Great House steps, his feet light and his heart bursting.

  He swept through the city as quickly as his feet would take him, stopping in shops and homes only long enough to poke his head through doorways and pass along the word that he wanted the church to gather as soon as possible in his home.

  “Spread the word,” he called to Alawin in the pastry stall as he passed, and the slight man lifted a hand in acknowledgment and lowered the flaps over the front of his stall.

  By the time Malik reached his own courtyard, it was filling with believers and buzzing with conversation. Malik paused at the entrance, remembered his forlorn thoughts in the empty council house.

  Forgive me, Lord. You are faithful, and You do not leave us alone.

  He was embraced and kissed as he passed through the cluster of people. They wanted to hear firsthand what had happened in the palace that morning and were disappointed Julian was not present to give details. Nahor and Niv arrived and described the scene, and by the time they had finished their tale, there were tears at the loss of Marta.

  Malik decided that enough had gathered and he should begin. He stepped onto a bench to be seen by each one. “Tomorrow, my friends, as you know, is the Festival of Grain.”

  The courtyard quieted at his voice, and faces turned toward him in respect. He felt that little surge of gratification at their submission to his authority, then forcibly handed it to his Lord. I am ready, he thought again, reminding himself that his days of leadership were coming to an end.

>   “The Lord has given me a vision.” The people stilled, eyes wide to hear it. “A vision of the High Place, covered not with the evil of the powers and principalities of this earth, but with the strength and might of the risen Christ!”

  He smiled down on them, their faces lit from within. “We will be part of this testimony, my friends. I do not yet know what God will have us do, but I know we must be ready.” He grew serious. “Gather provisions, brothers and sisters, and prepare your families for travel. It may be that after tomorrow there will no longer be a place for us in Petra.”

  Faces before him became grave, but he sensed strength from them. “God will be strong for us and through us, but we may be called to sacrifice and suffering, as our Lord was.”

  He debated for a moment whether to tell them what the Lord had given him regarding Julian’s leadership. That he himself would not be among them much longer, though he did not know where he would be. A twinge of sadness fluttered in his heart at the thought of separation from his dear flock. At the idea of them going on without him. He must have faith Julian would be there to lead them on.

  No, it was not yet time to give them this burden, when so much was still unknown. Including the whereabouts of Julian, who still had not shown his face in the courtyard. Another entered, however, and Malik’s attention went to the young girl at the courtyard entrance, whose stricken face brought a surge of concern.

  “What is it, Tabatha?” He had not noticed her missing from the group but remembered now that she had been in the palace this morning, waiting to help Marta carry Cassia’s boy in the basket of washing. Had she only now heard about Marta’s death?

  “I’ve just gotten free of my duties.” Her eyes were full of unshed tears.

  “Marta was a godly woman—” Malik hoped to give some comfort, but Tabatha interrupted.

  “They have taken Cassia!”

  Malik shook his head and looked to Hozai. “She was to be at the mouth of the gorge, waiting for Alexander. Did no one go to her?”

  “She was not there. I assumed she had received word of our failure already and returned to the city.”

  “No.” Tabatha wove through the crowd until she reached Malik’s feet where he stood above her on the bench. “She was in the palace—she was there when Marta was killed and Alexander was taken to the throne room.” She dropped her head. “I was hiding, and I saw the guards grab her. She fought with them, but they took her.”

  Malik stepped down and lifted the girl’s chin. “You could have done nothing and would have only endangered yourself. Better for you to have escaped to bring us this news.”

  She smiled through her tears and nodded.

  Malik scanned the group. “Is Julian still not among us?” Heads turned to search, but he was absent.

  What had happened to Cassia? Was she a prisoner with her son in the palace, or had Hagiru already made an end of her?

  A wave of sadness rushed through him. Cassia had found a special place in his childless heart, and his throat tightened at the prospect of her harm.

  He sighed deeply over his people and looked once more to the entrance to his courtyard.

  Julian, where are you?

  THIRTY-SIX

  CASSIA’S CELL GREW COLD, AND IN THE COMPLETE DARKNESS, she did not know how much time had passed. How long had she wandered along the riverbank with the One who seemed to still be present, even here in her cell?

  She sat with her back against a dank wall, and the packed earth of the floor was rutted and bumpy, but she noticed little of the discomforts. Her mind wandered freely over the past, into the present, and even to the future.

  So many years of relying on men, of remaining weak to keep their love. She had come to Petra believing that to be strong she must stand alone. But she had failed alone as well.

  What if the strength she sought did not come from men or from within herself?

  You must love from strength, not need. The words of Malik and the words of Jesus in her dream mingled and she was not certain who had told her that.

  But how was she to do what they said?

  She had always wanted people to love her, needed them to love her like she needed air to breathe. She had ordered her life to please them, and when they loved her, or even seemed to love her, she would cling to that love desperately until she had turned it into an object of worship and let it rule her.

  But if she could believe there was One God who truly loved her . . . If the followers of the Way were right and Jesus was the Messiah for all people, who had come as the once-and-for-all sacrifice for mankind, then this was a love that changed everything. Everything.

  Cassia felt the need to move, to walk. Something churned inside her and made it impossible to remain still. She climbed to her feet, careful not to put weight on her wrist, though the fire in it had banked.

  With the fingertips of her good hand tracing the stone wall, she walked carefully along the length of the cell until she reached the corner, then turned and continued. The cell was not large, and she had mastered the circuit after twice around.

  Her steps became automatic and her thoughts returned to what she was beginning to know was truth.

  She could not say how she knew this, really. Was it the dream of Jesus beside the river? She had wished for a vision like Malik’s friend Paul. But she was not a person to change her life based on a dream. Was it Malik and his joyful teaching of the One True God and the redemption he offered? Or Julian, always studying and learning and pursuing this God of his?

  Her memory played over the faces of the believers, and she saw their smiling eyes as they sang together in the flickering lamplight, as they listened to the reading of letters from those who had gone before.

  Yes, it was all of this, and it was the witness of her own heart as well, for once she opened herself to the One she had met by the river, a flood of assurance rushed in.

  She lost count of how many times she had circled the cell, for her thoughts were racing down a path toward something better.

  Jesus was the sacrifice for her. God wanted to love her, wanted a relationship with her, enough to do this marvelous thing. And she could be secure in that love, strong because of it. She could love others—from strength, not from need.

  Warmth spread through her at the thought. To love others in the way she had always enjoyed, to understand their hurts, to help heal their pain, but to do it without wrapping tight fingers around the response and crushing the life from it—this would be true freedom!

  Cassia slowed in her pace around the cell, turned a corner, and stopped. She lifted her face, eyes closed, to the roof above her, but felt as though she could see past it to the very heavens.

  Jesus. My Redeemer.

  She lifted her hands, her heart, her very self to the One who had come to set her free, who had died to give her life, and who lived even now to love her forever.

  The warmth grew like an embrace, like she was beside the river once more, held by eternal arms. Silent tears flowed, and with them she let go of all that need, all the desperation that had been hers since her parents had given her up.

  She had a Father.

  And brothers and sisters! She smiled, then laughed aloud.

  Oh, how she wished to see Julian! To tell him she had found his Jesus. Or had been found by Him. Her heart still ached for the pain she had caused him.

  She leaned her back against the wall and wondered if she would have a chance to tell him anything, if she would ever be embraced by her new family. If she would ever hold Alexander in her arms.

  All of it was important, so important. And yet she felt a deeper peace underlying the concerns, a peace that whispered, All is well, no matter what happened.

  Sometime later, the slap of footsteps drifted down to her underground hole. She had been dozing against the wall, but now she sat upright, straining to detect whether it was a man or woman, friend or enemy.

  A strange light played along the back wall of her cell, revealing jagged cracks in stone
s set haphazardly. Torchlight soon filled the cell, and Cassia blinked at a harsh yellow flame and smelled the bitumen that burned. Unaccustomed to the brightness, she could not at first make out who held the light.

  But then it drew closer, until it was just on the other side of the narrow gate in the wall, and the face followed behind it, eyes peering into the cell, searching.

  “Bethea!” Cassia stood and pressed her back against the wall. Had the girl been sent to finish her? Strange executioner, if so. Cassia had been expecting Hagiru herself. But perhaps that had been arrogant of her, to think the queen would bother to deal personally with someone as insignificant as she.

  You are loved.

  The words had come from somewhere both within and without, and she half smiled, even as Bethea’s dark gaze roamed her face.

  “She is going to have you killed.”

  Cassia sighed. “I am surprised she has not already.”

  “She has other pressing matters to attend to.”

  The Romans? Cassia remembered the soldier she had discovered in the storage room at the back of the palace.

  Bethea looked over her shoulder, then brought a fearful glance back to Cassia. What was the girl doing here?

  “You must get him out.” Bethea gripped the bar of the gate with her free hand.

  Had she found the Roman as well? How could Cassia possibly help? She squinted at the girl’s haunted gaze. “I don’t understand.”

  “I cannot do it. I . . . I am too afraid of her.” Bethea swallowed hard. “I am not strong like you.” The admission seemed to cost her something. Her vulnerability called out to Cassia. She read Bethea’s heart as though it were written in clay tablets, and the hurt there was one Cassia knew well—that desperation to belong, to be loved.

  She went to the cell gate and laid her hand over Bethea’s. “Tell me what is happening.”

  Bethea looked down at Cassia’s hand on her own, then lifted hungry eyes to her. “Rabbel is dead.”