Palace of Darkness

by Tracy L. Higley

  The man himself reclined even now, a bowl of wine on a low table before him and a small scroll in his hand. He looked up, attentive to his visitors.

  “Ah, Decimus, you have returned.” He thrust the scroll aside and pulled himself to standing. Cassia studied him, from balding head to leather boots, and tried to read him quickly and well, waiting for any telltale throbbing in her head that always warned her of danger.

  In his forties. Still fit. He was attractive and knew it, confident in his authority. Not unkind or cruel. But determined, and perhaps ambitious. Her assessment gave her hope.

  “Yes, Commander,” Decimus said, above and behind her.

  “And I see you have brought something back from the city in stone.” His gaze traveled the length of Cassia, clearly curious.

  “She arrived before I did, Commander. Though I did meet her while reconnoitering.”

  “Hmm.” The commander circled in front of Cassia, still taking her in. “I do not know what to ask about first. The state of the city or this pretty little thing.”

  Cassia lifted her chin. “They are one and the same.”

  “Ho, ho! She speaks. And with fire in her eyes.” The Roman commander laughed and met Decimus’s look over her shoulder. “Perhaps you should leave us, Decimus.”

  “As you wish, Commander Corvinus. May I only say that when I encountered her hiding in the palace this morning, she was telling the same story as she now tells, and I have reason to believe she speaks truth.”

  The commander pursed his lips, looked between the two of them, and then dipped his head toward Cassia. “High praise from my most valuable scout. Let us hear what you have to say.” He flicked his hand toward Decimus, and the soldier bowed and backed out of the tent, leaving Cassia alone with the man who held her future in his hands.

  Not so, the Lord whispered to her. The thought gave her boldness and the fluttering of her heart slowed. She found her fingers twisted together and forced them apart.

  “Come, sit.” The commander extended a hand to his couch.

  Cassia hesitated. She did not come for his hospitality and could see he had other things on his mind. She could imagine that months and even years away from their wives did not make Roman soldiers trustworthy in these situations.

  In the end, she favored her first reading of him, that he would not be cruel. Lascivious, perhaps. But not cruel. She went to his couch and perched on the edge.

  “You have traveled far.” He reclined beside her. “Please, rest. Have some wine.”

  Cassia shook her head. “Thank you, no. I have urgent matters I must discuss with you.”

  “Ah yes. The state of the city.” He sipped from a Petra-red clay bowl, painted with a leafy design with red berries along the lip.

  “The people are informed. They know of Rome’s march across the world, of the way in which it has swallowed even more than Alexander did, and made subjects of kingdoms far and wide.”

  Corvinus smiled over his wine. “Indeed? I would not have thought even news could penetrate through the crack in the rock.”

  “They are ready. Ready to also become a Roman province. And they would see it happen peacefully rather than at great cost to them, to their families, and to their land.”

  He set the bowl down on the table with a slight thunk and leaned toward her. “Who are you? Do you speak for the royal house?”

  Cassia swallowed hard, bit her lip, and stared at her hands. Yes. And no. “My name is Cassia. My son will be the next king of Nabataea.”

  Corvinus took in her servant’s robe once more and lifted an eyebrow. “Indeed.”

  She did not back down. “His father was the eldest son of King Rabbel. The king’s second wife also has a son, and since discovering Alexander existed, I have been in hiding and my son has been in jeopardy. The queen plans to kill him.” Cassia’s voice caught on the last two words, and she fought to control the tremor.

  Corvinus sat back and used his tongue to work at something between his teeth, regarding her through half-closed eyes. Did he believe her story?

  “How can you be certain that your son would be king and not hers?”

  “It is the Nabataean way. Eldest son to eldest son.”

  “Still”—he shrugged—“none of it is of any consequence, for Rome will soon rule the Arabian province and there will be no king in Petra.”

  Already there is no king in Petra. But she would not speak of this yet.

  “The people desire peace. And I believe that you and I can give it to them.”

  He smiled, clearly amused. “I am listening.”

  Cassia breathed a quick prayer to the God who heard all, then folded her hands in her lap. “I want to strike a deal with you. The queen, Hagiru, holds my son in her grip and plans to kill him tomorrow night at the Festival of Grain, as a human sacrifice on the altar of the High Place in Petra.”

  Corvinus’s nose wrinkled. “Disgusting. What kinds of gods do you serve here?”

  Cassia chose to ignore the complicated question. “I want you to send in enough soldiers to retrieve my son and remove Hagiru from the palace.”

  “Hmm.” He reached for a bowl of figs on the table beside them and his hand grazed her leg. “Shouldn’t be difficult. And what do you propose to offer me in return?”

  Cassia thought back to Rabbel’s courtyard, when she had offered her very self in exchange for Alexander’s life. “I offer you Petra.”

  He popped a fig between his lips and smiled before biting down. “The entire city?”

  “My son is too young to rule alone. I would act as his regent. And as his regent, I would follow what I know is the will of the people of Nabataea. I would abdicate my son’s kingship and peacefully become a province of Rome.”

  Corvinus chewed slowly, his eyes on her, but his mind clearly playing with the idea. She waited.

  “How could I be certain that you would keep your agreement?”

  Cassia shrugged. “I suppose you cannot. But you have little to lose and much to gain. I would guess the acquisition of Nabataea without the involvement of your troops would reflect well on your command to those who watch from Rome.”

  He sat up, grinning. “You would make a formidable politician, my girl.”

  Cassia had aimed correctly, at his ambition.

  He stood and paced the tent before her. “I can see only one reason not to agree.” He stopped and turned to her. “I am under orders to take Petra soon. From all I have learned, the king has no such desire to abdicate. And I cannot wait until your son is made king in his stead.”

  Cassia stood as well, not wanting him to be looking down on her when she answered.

  “The king, Commander Corvinus, is dead.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  HAGIRU SAT ON THE EDGE OF RABBEL’S DEATHBED, HER gaze roaming over his composed features.

  His personal servants had dressed him in a clean and simple robe of white and folded linen over his body, with a sharp crease of fabric across his chest. Hagiru watched his chest, waiting for it to rise or fall.

  Is he truly gone?

  The room smelled of death, though it was the aroma of embalming spices, already brought and sprinkled around the body even before preparation had begun.

  She had not expected it to take so long. Over the months of his illness, she had second thoughts and even third about her course of action. And even now, now that it was over, she couldn’t help but think back over their years together and wonder if they couldn’t have done better.

  She had hoped for so much when they first married. Believed they would rule side by side, that she would make him happy. Bear him children.

  Hagiru had not anticipated that she could not compete with her predecessor, who could do no wrong now that she was dead. And her childbearing had nearly been a failure, until the gods had intervened and given her Obadas, for which she owed them her loyalty.

  She smoothed the linen that covered his lifeless arm, then studied her own hand on the fabric, the loose skin and cris
scrossing lines. When had she aged so? Rabbel’s face seemed to have lost enough years that he looked as she remembered on their wedding day, as though he had been wrapped in the cares of a kingdom like grave clothes, and in death he had finally shed them. But the years were evident in her hands, and more so in her heart. It was time to claim the power she had yearned for since the day she realized she would never have love.

  Angrily, she swiped at a stray tear that had stolen from her eye as she had grown morbid about the passing years. In the hall outside the chamber, she could hear the muffled keening of palace servants who had heard the news of the king’s death. She had given strict instructions that it was not to be told outside the palace, but it would not be long before all of Petra heard. And then the Romans, camped outside the city.

  Yes, it had taken longer than she expected for him to die, and yet the gods were with her, for the timing was fortuitous as well.

  She feared that Rabbel would change his mind about the sacrifice of Aretas’s son, but now there was no danger. She worried the boy’s mother would become even more of a problem, but as soon as Hagiru heard of her husband’s death, she sent guards to the underground cell to make an end of the girl. That effort had not turned out as she planned, but her spies were everywhere. Already they scoured the city for word of where the escaped woman was hiding. She would be dead before morning.

  And then nothing would remain in her way. Obadas would be named king and Hagiru would rule from behind him with an iron hand, ready and able to quash the Roman occupation and keep her people free.

  A slave appeared at the door, eyes downcast in respect for the dead. He was one of the few allowed access to the king’s private chamber. “Someone to see the queen.”

  “Who is it?”

  “One of your guards, with a message he says is urgent.”

  Hagiru nodded, and the guard appeared a moment later. He also bowed low as he entered and spoke quietly.

  “I have received reports from throughout the city, my queen.”

  “Where is she?” Hagiru half expected him to say the girl was still in the palace, still crawling about trying to save her son.

  “She has left Petra.”

  Hagiru narrowed her eyes and looked up sharply. “You are mistaken.” Though she had ignored it, Hagiru had seen the mother-love in the girl’s eyes. She would not have left her son the day before the festival.

  “She has gone to the Romans.”

  Hagiru shot to her feet. “Traitorous little—”

  “I also have reports that a Roman soldier may have been in the palace earlier today.”

  She paced, her thoughts spinning. “Do they know the king is dead?”

  “You were most clear that no one was to speak—”

  “People talk! Do they know?”

  He shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  She stalked back and forth across the death chamber, and her sandals slapped a rhythm on the stone floor. “What does she hope to accomplish?”

  Her trained guard did not speak, presumably because he had nothing to offer.

  Hagiru stopped her pacing in front of him and let him feel the weight of her anger. “She must be killed. Immediately.”

  He nodded once.

  “I don’t care how many you have to take to get past the Romans. She must not return to Petra.”

  “As you say, Queen.”

  She clapped her hands together twice and pointed to the door. “Go!”

  Hagiru returned to Rabbel’s bedside, but she had no desire to continue to sit with his body. There was still much to be done before Obadas would be king, and an indulgence in memories of the past would do nothing to secure her future.

  It was time to act.

  FORTY

  WHEN JULIAN LEFT MALIK IN THE STREET BELOW THE tomb work site, he had little idea of where he could go to get away from the old man and from his own thoughts. Petra was a thriving, teeming city, but at times it seemed its placement inside this natural gorge was like being held in a great stone fist, with nowhere to go.

  And so he climbed. Not to the tomb site, nor to any of the rock-cut homes in the cliff. He wished to be alone, and there seemed no lonelier place in Petra, at least for today, than the High Place of Sacrifice.

  Since hearing about the horrific sacrifice planned for tomorrow’s festival, Julian had been curious about the cliff-top holy place, and so this evening he would satisfy both his curiosity and his need for solitude.

  The sun hung low in the west when he began his ascent, and he pushed away the thought that it was a foolish errand at this hour. Sometimes foolish action was better than no action.

  He had already wandered to the west end of the city, past the palace and Temple of al-‘Uzza, past the Great House, and under the Sacred Gate that marked the beginning of the religious sites, including the Great Temple of Dushara. From this end of the city, the path to the High Place was longer but not as steep as it was beside the theatre. He trekked up the winding path, avoiding the scrub brush and rocks, and not pausing to examine the elegantly carved tombs he passed.

  Halfway up he was already sweating and breathing heavily. He fought a great sadness more than any other emotion. Sadness at what had happened and what he had become, both a failure and a coward. The past and the present merged to condemn him together, as though they had joined hands and then pointed fingers of accusation. Cassia and Vita. Malik and his parents. He had not won the love of either woman, nor the respect of his elders.

  And Alexander.

  His heart felt tender and raw at the thought of that little boy calling out to him in the throne room, with Julian unable even to speak words of comfort to him. In only the few brief times he had encountered the boy, already Alexander had become dear to him. Perhaps it was only that he saw him through Cassia’s eyes.

  My mother would love Alexander.

  The thought came from nowhere and felt like a blow to the stomach. He paused beside a large rock and put out a hand to steady himself at the wave of emotion.

  The city had begun to fall away, and the path hugged the cliff now, with narrow ledge-steps grooved into the rock in places and winding natural paths in others. Julian passed one tomb with a large interior, its triclinium’s three benches large enough to hold a huge funerary banquet for the deceased. The rock ribbons were especially beautiful inside, even in the fading light, and Julian wished Cassia were here to see the silk-like formations. Wished that he could show her every beautiful thing in the world, from now until the end.

  Not far from this beautiful chamber he passed a lion sculpted into the rock wall, with a fountain of water pouring from its mouth. It reminded him of the carving he had seen in the Siq when he first came to Petra.

  Why had he come here? He climbed higher, trying to go back to his first goals, trying to forget what had happened since he met Malik and Cassia.

  He wanted only to hide from the long arm of the emperor, to keep his family safe back in Rome. To forget about Vita.

  He could sculpt here, pursue the talent he had always enjoyed. What better place to make a name for himself than a city made of rock?

  He paused a moment to catch his breath, his back against the rock wall to fight the dizzying height. The city crawled with ants now, not people. And the sky, though darkening, seemed close enough to touch. Lodged between earth and sky, Julian felt himself the only person alive.

  And he began to fear the solitude he had sought. For in solitude, it became easier to hear the voice of the Lord.

  Had he thought to come up here and avoid that Voice? As if the evil of the plateau would frighten away the One God? He nearly laughed at his foolishness, however unconscious it had been, and remembered the story of the Hebrew prophet Elijah, hiding in the cleft of a rock while the wind and the fire rushed past, then hearing God in a quiet and still voice.

  He was not ready to listen. He climbed again. One foot higher than the next, grabbing at the narrow ledges of orange-red rock as the wind increased and the ci
ty dropped farther out of reach.

  And then at last he had reached the plateau. He waited for some sense of victory, of accomplishment at the climb, but felt only the pervading sense of evil that spread over the High Place like a dark and heavy blanket.

  From the ground, the top of the mountain had seemed like only a ridge, a narrow point. But now that he stood on it, he realized it was more like a wide plain, broken by small variations of rocks, rising and falling to differing levels but still a vast area. Toward the north he could see the promontory that jutted over the city. No doubt the actual altar and holy site were there. But to his right he saw two large obelisks carved from solid stone. Sacred rites must occur there as well, far from the altar.

  Again, a wave of heaviness pushed at Julian, and he pulled away from the side of the cliff, fearing it could somehow knock him from the High Place.

  He crossed the rock top to the far side, looked down on the east end of the city, and far below could make out the large complex of huge tombs where he worked every day.

  Where I belong.

  And yet going back to the tombs felt like failure too.

  What am I to do, Lord?

  Once a call from the Lord was heard, could he turn his back and ignore it? Could he go back to sculpting rock when his heart told him his work was carving out a church?

  The wind picked up, and once again Julian backed away from the edge of the cliff and crossed back to the two obelisks that stood like the lone pillars of some fallen temple.

  It was nearly dark now, and he still would have to climb down.

  Passing the second obelisk, Julian felt a deep vibration shudder through him. He paused and put a hand to the tall rock, curious and fearful at once.

  Yes, there it was. Like an earthquake but confined only to the column of stone, radiating out from it, through his hand, across the ground, up and through his feet.