The news sent a wave of shock through Cassia and she dropped her hand.
Bethea continued, her words coming in a rush. “I had thought that when she heard, the queen would forget her plan for the festival, but now she seems more fearful than ever that without a king in Petra, the Romans will attack. She is desperate to put Obadas on the throne with herself as regent, but fearful the people will object because of Alexander.”
Cassia fought to focus, to hold on to each detail, though she ached to think only of Alexander. But at the mention of his name, Bethea’s whole countenance softened, and Cassia knew.
Bethea had come to love her son. How could she not?
“What can we do?” Cassia breathed deeply, trying to free her lungs from the crushing pressure.
A tear slid from the corner of Bethea’s eye. “She is intent on going through with the sacrifice tomorrow night. She says that when the sun sets on Petra on the first day of the Festival of Grain, a human sacrifice to Dushara will ensure the Nabataean kingdom remains free of Rome.”
If Rome does not come in and slaughter the entire royal family before that. Cassia kept the thought to herself. The girl was already terrified. “Has word gotten out that Rabbel is dead?”
Bethea shook her head. “Only those closest to him know.” She shifted the torch to her other hand and fumbled at the gate’s latch. The heavy beam that lay across the door and extended down the wall could not be lifted from the inside, and even from the outside, Bethea struggled with it.
“Let me hold the torch.” Cassia reached her hand through the gate. Bethea passed it off, then used both hands to lift the beam. It took a succession of passing the torch between them to get the bar lifted past it, but in a moment Bethea swung the cell gate open and Cassia was free.
Her thoughts tumbled and she tried to formulate a plan.
“You must get him far from here before the sun sets tomorrow,” Bethea said.
Cassia nodded, but her mind rebelled. What could she do that had not already been tried? She could not break Alexander out of the palace alone, nor with the help of her friends. It would take an army to get him out of this place.
An army.
“Bethea, I have need of two more things from you.” She struggled to keep her voice calm. “First, you must help me get out of this palace unseen.” The girl nodded, eyes wide. Cassia touched her face, overcome suddenly with empathy for this woman who had been Aretas’s victim even before her. And it was a love that came not from a place of need within her, but from a place of strength.
“And then you must find me a water pot.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
CASSIA FOLLOWED BETHEA THROUGH THE BACK HALLS, staying close to the girl and to the wall. She led Cassia through tiny rooms with doors on the other side, down steps and through dark corridors, then back into the light and through narrow halls. Had Bethea done nothing in her years in the palace but explore all of its crannies? Perhaps she had made an art out of remaining unseen.
Cassia was breathless by the time they reached an underground chamber where sunlight outlined a tiny door on the far wall. Bethea crossed the room, sure-footed, then bent and shoved the door open.
“Quickly,” she whispered, but Cassia held back.
“I can’t fit through there!”
Bethea waved her over. “You are smaller than I, and I’ve done it many times.”
Again, Cassia wondered at the life Bethea had led here in the palace. “Why did you stay, Bethea? All these years since Aretas left?”
The girl hesitated, then sighed. “Aretas always thought he had a better way to do everything, even rule the kingdom.”
This, I know.
Bethea pushed Cassia toward the small door. “It was such a small disagreement he had with Rabbel. I always believed he would return.” She dropped her chin. “I would have given up long ago if I had known he had you.”
Cassia paused only a moment to give Bethea a quick embrace. “You remember what I need?”
“Yes, yes. Now go!”
“I will see you behind the palace.”
Bethea nodded, her eyes full, but Cassia was unsure whether she wept over Alexander or because Cassia had embraced her. How long had it been since anyone had shown her love?
She bent to the narrow opening, pushed one arm out, then her right shoulder and her head. A moment later she was wriggling onto the sandy ground on the back side of the palace, away from the street. Her wrist gave her some pain, but not much.
The door closed behind her without a word from Bethea, and she was alone.
From the sun she guessed it was late afternoon. Not much time before nightfall to accomplish her plan. Scanning the ground that rose slightly behind her, she saw no one. The Temple of al-‘Uzza to her left would be busy at this time of day, as people finished their workday, but from here she should go unnoticed, even in her dirty and torn palace-servant robes. She straightened and tried to look as though she belonged behind the palace.
It seemed an age since she had entered not far from where she now stood, sneaking past Hozai to find Marta and Tabatha inside. Her heart thudded with a dull ache at the memory of Marta on the throne room floor.
How long would it take Bethea to retrace her steps through the palace? It would have been simpler for the girl to have come out with Cassia and enter through the back, but she was not willing to risk being seen outside with Cassia.
She walked along the back wall, still trying to appear nonchalant, until she reached the back entrance of the palace where she had broken through so many hours ago. It was not safe to venture farther, but she was loathe to remain still.
She watched the sun with some anxiety and tried to speed Bethea with her thoughts.
“I will never leave you nor forsake you.”
She had heard Malik read those words from one of the accounts of Jesus’ life with His disciples. It was Jesus who said it, she remembered, to His faithful ones. Were the words also for her, even today?
A harsh whisper caught her attention. Bethea stood at the back entrance, Talya’s colorfully striped pouch in her hands.
Cassia rushed to her, took the pouch, and embraced her once again. “Thank you, Bethea.”
The girl nodded, stark fear in her roaming glances.
“Tell Alexander I love him. Tell him I am coming soon.”
Bethea gripped her arms one last time. “Be sure you do.”
And then Cassia was off, strapping the pouch over her head and shoulder to secure it and thinking through the route she must now take.
Down the main market street of shops, past the grand Nymphaeum where she had first met Julian. Past the houses of friends built into naturally occurring terraces or cut into the sandstone cliffs. She would have to pass the tomb work site, where her fellow workers would be toiling. Would Julian be there? She could not allow him to see her. If he didn’t stop her, he would no doubt follow her, which would bring disaster on him.
She would have to sneak under Zeta’s home, past the amphitheatre where Yehosef was probably training his gladiators.
As her feet carried her through the city, she realized how many people had grown dear to her in Petra.
If she made it out of the city now, she might be able to save them all. If things did not go well on the other side of the Siq, she might not return. The thought quickened her steps. She kept her head down and stayed in the crowded parts of the street.
The familiar landmarks passed behind her, and when she cleared the amphitheatre, she felt some relief. There should be no one to recognize her between here and the Siq.
The rock wall that cradled the city bent to the right, and she rounded the cliff and saw the traders and their market laid out before her, the first scene she had witnessed when she and Alexander emerged from the mighty crack in the mountain all those weeks ago. It looked the same yet very different now that she was no longer an outsider.
How hopeful I was that day. And yet how different the present was from what she had imagined.
But there was no time for reminiscing. As on that first day, the sun would not linger in the west much longer, and the market had slowed its business.
A quick scan of the area and she found what she sought. A horse trader with several decent mounts. She approached with a bold confidence and asked the price of a black mare.
The horse dealer, a runt of a man with broken teeth, looked her up and down, took in her palace robes, albeit ripped and filthy. “Seventy-five denarii.”
She laughed. “Do you think I am the queen herself?” She halved his price, then looked away, as though searching for another trader. In truth, she had very little time for bartering, but to act the foolish buyer might draw more attention than she wished.
The scrawny man patted the horse’s side. “Fifty denarii, I could not let this fine one go for less.”
“Fifty, then.” Cassia pulled the pouch from her neck and fished out some of the money Malik had given her.
Seems so long ago.
She hoped her barter had brought the price down enough that she would not be noted.
When the money was exchanged, the horse trader handed Cassia the frayed rope that hung from the horse’s halter, but she shook her head. “Help me up.”
His bushy eyebrows lifted, but he cooperated.
Cassia had not ridden much, and she felt unsettled on her mount, but she had no time for training either. With a kick to the horse’s haunches and a pull on her head, she directed the mare toward the narrow crack in the cliff wall, where all who entered and left Petra passed. She trotted obediently, but once they had entered the slit in the mountain, she urged the mare to something faster than a trot.
The crowds traveling out of Petra were not so heavy today. Most travelers headed into the city.
For the Festival of Grain.
She kicked the horse into a full gallop, then clung to the reins. Her teeth came together in a jarring snap and her hair loosed and flew behind her.
The pounding of the horse’s hooves on the limestone paving cleared the way of pedestrians. She wove through camels and donkey carts, giving the horse direction but mostly giving her her head.
It had taken such a long time to walk through the Siq, she remembered. Each bend in the rock wall promised to be the end, then revealed another length of road to walk. But the swift ride in the other direction sped by, and she barely noticed the water channel along the wall, the sculpted facades, the djinn blocks that had all been so fascinating.
The cliff walls spread apart and she flew out of the gorge onto the wider road that led toward it. Here the travelers thinned, and as the hour grew later they would disappear.
She rode out of the protection of the city alone, into the open desert, at the worst time of day.
Straight toward the enemy camp.
How long until she would see signs of the Roman encampment that lurked at the edge of Petra, waiting to swarm the city? She had not seen it when she and Alexander came to Petra, and this fact guided her direction now. It must lie somewhere they didn’t travel.
Certainly the Romans would have a challenge in taking the city, protected as it was by its natural walls. Roman legions must be positioned near every major Nabataean city, but if they could take the capital, perhaps they would have no need of other sieges.
The sun bid the desert good night at last and sank into its bed. The sky grew violet and a tiny crescent moon hung over the horizon, partnered with one bright star.
Cassia slowed her mad rush from the city, scanning the desert for signs of Roman life.
Where are they?
Seeing nothing, she continued east, though she did not drive the horse so fast. There was no sense in galloping in the wrong direction. The steep and rocky hills, pierced everywhere with caves and fissures, stared down at her like hollow eyes, and the pale strip of desert stretched like a barren carpet before her.
Slowed now, she had time to reflect, though she didn’t want to. Her palms grew sweaty in their grip of the reins, and she forced her thoughts away from the festival and the sacrifice.
Scrubby grasses poked out of the red sand, and her horse bent for a mouthful. She did not stop her. Her errand seemed foolish now. How had she thought she could save a city?
A wave of exhaustion settled on her, catching up with her from a day of tension and fear. She swayed in the saddle and half closed her eyes, wishing she could slip to the desert sand and sleep.
But the thought of sleep and dreams brought back her riverside walk with Jesus, and the tentative and newborn faith she had claimed in her cell.
Jesus, are You with me even here?
She wished for Him to walk beside her again but then realized the Spirit of God Malik spoke of so often had taken up residence within her and God was closer than a heartbeat. She smiled, filled again with the warm love that gave her strength.
On the horizon, Cassia thought perhaps she saw a fire. She dug her heels into the horse’s flank and leaned over her neck, as if she could reach the flame sooner.
Yes, it grew as she advanced! She urged the horse to full speed and soon saw that the fire blazed atop a sentry tower, built at the edge of a square-fenced camp.
The Romans.
She had no hopes of arriving unseen. With the sentry tower’s torch blazing and her a lone rider across the twilight desert, she only wondered how long until she was hailed and stopped.
The irony of the situation fell upon her. Early this morning Julian had entered the Petran palace claiming to have a message from Rome. And now she stormed the Roman camp with a message from Petran royalty.
Only this time, it was true.
THIRTY-EIGHT
AS CASSIA EXPECTED, A YELL WENT UP FROM THE POSTED sentry at her approach to the Roman camp. She tilted her head back and met his look, wanting him to see she was a woman. There was, perhaps, less chance of a javelin being thrown at her if he knew.
The enclosure was built of wooden pickets—scarce in the desert so they must have been brought far—easier to build than a stone wall. She had seen the old Roman military camps in Syria. If the soldiers stayed long, they would indeed build stone walls. For now the wooden pickets sufficed as protection in the middle of a desert where attackers could not approach with stealth.
There was no gate, only a narrow opening in the wooden fence guarded by two soldiers who lowered their pilum at her approach in the dusky evening. Their red-plumed helmets and leather-and-iron breastplates seemed so foreign, so formal.
She slowed her horse, then slid from it, giving up any advantage she may have had and allowing them to see that not only was she a woman but a very small one, and unarmed.
“I have come to speak with your commander. I have a message from Petra.”
The two soldiers eyed each other, then laughed. “They have sent a slave to pass their messages? Rome will not be pleased.”
Cassia smoothed her robes and lifted her chin. “I am the mother of Petra’s next king, fleeing for my life and thus disguised.”
The other soldier inched his pike toward her, as though he would poke her to see if she bled. “And I am Emperor Trajan, come to check on my troops.” He jerked his head at his fellow soldier and grinned. “You there. You work too hard. Take the night off.”
His companion laughed and saluted. “Thank you, Emperor. You are most observant.”
A voice behind her turned Cassia’s head. Another on horseback approached and called out to the guards, “Are you two on duty or on holiday?” Cassia studied the newcomer’s horse, certain it had been another she had seen with the horse trader.
The guards looked over her shoulder at the new arrival. “Aw, Decimus, we’re only having a bit of fun with an Arab slave.”
Cassia whirled back on them, glaring. “I told you—”
“What did she tell you?” the man, Decimus, asked from behind her.
The leaner guard laughed and Cassia wanted to smack him. “Something about being the prince’s mother—”
“Turn around.”
&
nbsp; His command was low but authoritative. Cassia turned.
The Roman! The one she met in the palace storage room. Clearly he recognized her as well. “Who are you?”
She inhaled courage and licked her lips. “My name is Cassia. I am the mother of Alexander, son of Aretas, son of Rabbel, king of Petra. My son is next in line for the throne of Petra, and I have come to speak with the Roman commander about the future of our city and our kingdom.”
“You told me this morning they have taken your son. Who has taken him?”
“The new queen. She wishes to kill him and put her own son on the throne.”
Decimus shrugged. “What does any of this have to do with us? Before long there will be no king of Petra, only a governor of the new Roman province of Arabia.”
“That is what I wish to speak about. I believe it can be done without bloodshed. With no loss to your troops or the people of Petra.”
Decimus’s eyebrows lifted, and Cassia sensed strength in him but no danger. She would not say more. Not to him. “I wish to speak to your commander.”
“Search her.” Decimus slid from his horse.
When they were satisfied she was unarmed, the two guards led her into the compound, with Decimus at her heels.
The camp was large, with row upon row of leather tents pitched in a grid and a street of rocks and broken potsherds leading from the front entrance straight through the camp. A larger tent sat at the center, the destination of this impromptu street in the desert. She assumed this was the commander’s residence.
And it was there the guards led her. Heart pounding and legs shaking, her resolve slipped. Could she do this? Did she dare? She spoke for all of Petra. All but one power-mad queen.
The guards yelled through the leather tent, its flap was lifted, and she was pushed inside. The two sentries did not accompany her, but Decimus drew up behind her, a solid wall at her back.
Jesus, give me the words. Give me the wisdom.
The inside of the tent was considerably darker, as the commander had not yet had enough lamps lit. One brazier burned in the center on a small marble column, and Cassia marveled at the luxury inside this central residence. Did his soldiers know their commander slept on soft bedding and reclined on couches to dine from delicately painted bowls?
Palace of Darkness Page 24