Palace of Darkness

by Tracy L. Higley

  And with the vibration, there was an almost audible rumble. A low growl, angry and threatening.

  Julian yanked his hand from the rock as though it burned him, and in a way it did, for he felt pain, both physical and in his spirit at the sense of hatred that flowed from the stone.

  A bitterness rose in his throat and he stumbled away from the pillar. God, what is this?

  But even as he asked, he knew the answer. The obelisks were said to be the resting places of the gods, like the large black cube in the Temple of al-‘Uzza. The faithful worshippers of Dushara circled such monuments religiously, in hopes of gaining the favor of the gods housed within. A guttural voice wormed its way into Julian’s mind, and he could not tell if it spoke aloud or only inside of him.

  THE PRINCE OF PETRA DEMANDS YOUR OBEDIENCE.

  A hand seemed to clamp onto his chest, and Julian gasped and bent at the waist trying to release it.

  The entire plateau seemed to buck and rock now, as though caught in the throes of an angry storm. Julian himself felt like a piece of wood on the waves, a shipwreck tossed high, then plunged to the depths.

  He put out a hand to steady himself, then yanked it downward when the only solid thing was the obelisk.

  The crush of the unseen waves on his lungs grew unbearable, and Julian half walked, half stumbled to the narrow steps that had brought him to the plateau.

  I must get down.

  When he reached the edge, a sickening urge to throw himself off swept over him and he tripped on the first few steps, his hands scrabbling over the rock wall for something to keep him from pitching downward.

  It was too dark to see the steps. His foolishness had caught up with him.

  Somehow he kept moving down the path without falling to the rocky ledges that outcropped below.

  The minutes stretched on and still he fled downward, the pressure easing slowly on his chest and the city growing larger beneath him.

  Halfway down he could go no farther without resting, and when the ground leveled out before a small grouping of tombs, he found a flat rock and stretched himself on it. He stared at the purple sky, his breathing labored.

  And lying there, halfway between the city and the High Place, far from Rome and far from friends, the past and his failure crushed down on him like the evil on the plateau, only instead of stopping his breath, it welled up inside and he found himself weeping for all that had happened and all he had failed to achieve.

  All his life he had worked to gain the approval of others. To see admiration in their eyes, to hear them praise his work. Yet here he lay, on a rock in the desert, a disappointment to everyone he knew.

  You are not a disappointment to Me.

  Julian threw an arm over his tearstained face and listened, longing for the Voice to speak again.

  You are My dear son.

  His heart reached out, desperate, wanting the words to be true. Wanting them to be more than his imagination.

  You are My dear son.

  Just that, no more. No mention of what he had accomplished, what he could achieve in the future. No conditions, no demands.

  His heart stilled. If God is for me, who can be against me?

  Was it presumptuous to believe that God was for him? Was it a promise he could claim?

  The darkness had come fully now, heavy and black. Julian sat up on his rock and searched the sky, counting the stars as they appeared, then losing count.

  And there, caught between the city and the High Place, a change came upon him.

  Evil was up there, of that he had no doubt. But it was an evil that had no power in the face of the One God. And it would be defeated.

  This is a work that God wishes to do. And He wanted to use Julian to do it.

  He climbed from his rock and looked down toward the city.

  What would happen if he gave up his need for approval, if he walked away from the safety of praise and admiration? If he rested in the acceptance gained through Jesus’ death for him? Risked everything to answer the call to lead through humility, to be a servant?

  He searched the plateau above and thought he saw a wisp of smoke waver above the rock, as though the altar consumed a sacrifice already.

  It is time.

  He heard the words from outside himself and knew the final call had come, and he must make his decision now, in this moment.

  Follow . . . or deny.

  He thought of Cassia, of her accusation that he had once run in fear. And he thought of Vita, given the chance at life if she would renounce her Christ, and the way her face had glowed with something like heaven as the lions were released from under the theatre’s seats to rush across the sand toward the huddled band of believers. Could he do any less?

  And you will do much more.

  The words filled his heart, assuring him he had new things to accomplish, to achieve—unseen things that would outlast even his stone sculptures.

  Julian breathed deeply of the night air, filling his chest with it, breaking the bands that had tethered him for longer than he had realized. Yes, it is time.

  The path down to the city seemed to be only a few cubits long, and as his feet found the road to Malik’s house, Julian knew he had left the guilt of the past on the High Place, where the evil that dwelt there could do nothing to hurt him again.

  FORTY-ONE

  CASSIA SLEPT FITFULLY IN THE BACK OF COMMANDER Corvinus’s tent, one eye open most of the night. He insisted she stay there, with him sleeping in the front on one of his couches, telling her there was no safer place in the encampment. This she believed to be true, but she still did not sleep easy. Her night was split between nightmares about the festival and waking thoughts about being the only woman in a garrison of nearly a thousand soldiers.

  But the morning came, slicing without mercy through gaps in the leather tent and searing her eyes with its arrival. She dragged weary limbs from the bed and rubbed her temples. Her head felt as heavy as a djinn block.

  Corvinus had promised her last night that she would ride today with a contubernium, ten of his best men, into Petra to rescue Alexander. They would ride without Roman uniform, stagger their entrance into the city to avoid notice, and meet at the palace. Corvinus assured her his men could get into the palace and back out with Alexander before the queen even knew they had arrived.

  The commander was gone from the tent already when she straggled to the front room, but a breakfast of grapes and goat cheese had been laid out. Alexander’s favorite. She ate greedily, realizing she had not eaten since yesterday morning.

  “Ah, good, you are awake.” The commander’s voice filled the tent before his body fully passed the front flap. “I have been selecting your men and briefing them on their mission.”

  Cassia tried to smile but found herself suddenly nauseated. She put a hand to her stomach to quiet the rolling.

  “No fear, my girl,” Corvinus said. “You go with the best-trained army the world has known.”

  She nodded. “How soon do we leave?”

  He snatched a grape from the table. “As soon as you are ready.”

  It was the answer she had hoped for, and Cassia stood, her breakfast forgotten.

  They were saddled and ready within the hour, and her horse stood at the point of the ten men, including Decimus, as though she would lead them into battle.

  She circled the animal to face the contubernium and frowned. They wore the robes and head scarves of Arabs, but everything about them, from their profiles to their bearing, screamed Roman. Could they pass into the city without notice?

  Corvinus strode in front of the group and gave his final instructions. They were to get in and out quickly, remove the boy, and dispatch the queen.

  At this last bit, the heat drained from Cassia’s face. It was clear Corvinus wanted Hagiru dead by the end of the day. Could Cassia be part of this and bear no guilt?

  It is Hagiru or Alexander. She knew this to be true and was only glad it would not need to be her who stood against the queen.
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  Corvinus patted her leg as though they were old friends. “Courage, girl. Courage.”

  She nodded and gave him as much of a smile as she could muster, and then they were off, trotting across the red sand with the early-morning sun warming their heads.

  The men behind her spoke little, and the horses’ hooves made no noise as they sank into the soft sand. The only sound was the scrape and swoosh of saddle and leg, leaving Cassia time for her thoughts.

  She expected to feel more anxiety as they neared the Siq, but it seemed to her the desert stretched before them like a victory processional. The cliff that hid Petra from view seemed dwarfed compared to her first entrance into the city, friendless and unknown. She straightened her back and lifted her head, then gripped the reins of her horse with steady hands. For the first time in many weeks, she believed Alexander would truly be freed from the queen. Whether it was the Romans behind her, the God who had adopted her, or the strength she had found within herself, she could not say. But while the entrance to the Siq was still far off, Cassia felt as if success was in her hands.

  Decimus talked to the soldiers about splitting off. They would separate long before any travelers or traders heading into the city could notice ten Romans dressed as Arabs riding together.

  The wide desert narrowed, and they headed between two lowlying hills, one of the many roads that led to the King’s Highway, the main trading route from Egypt to Syria. It was still early, but even in the mornings, these trade routes were unsafe. Bandits could waylay unsuspecting travelers, relieving them of their money and goods. Cassia remembered her fear the first time through one of these straits, but this morning she passed with ten trained Romans with little concern.

  She should have been more wary. They had entered the narrow pass and were traveling in a single column when the first marauder came screaming from a small cave, a sword held aloft as he ran. The rest of them flooded in, surrounding the group in a moment.

  Cassia’s heart quailed at the screams and she spun back into the group of soldiers.

  The ten of them clustered at once in an organized defense, evidence of their training, and brandished weapons.

  Cassia watched in horror as the bandits and soldiers engaged. The thieves would have little interest in her during the battle, but they would not leave her unhurt if she was without the protection of the soldiers.

  The Romans had the immediate advantage of being mounted and used it fully. She watched, shaking in the saddle, as Decimus hacked and thrust at the attackers. Her horse whinnied and pawed the ground, and she tried to keep the mare steady in the center of the circle while watching the battle that swarmed around her.

  And then as she watched, a startling thing became evident. The bandits were not going after the men, trying to steal whatever they had on their horses or their persons. They were trying to get past the men, to the center of their circle.

  To her.

  The soldiers seemed to realize this at the moment she did, for she had only a moment or two of panic before they tightened around her in obvious protection.

  “Hold, Cassia!” Decimus yelled, as though she had the notion to go running off alone.

  Though grateful for their protection, her heart pounded and she struggled to breathe. Had the attackers thought she would return alone? Had they waited in the caves for her to approach, then attacked before they realized how well protected she was?

  Clearly they weren’t prepared for the contubernium. Decimus and the others slashed and stabbed, and the attackers fell in turn, bloody and lifeless in the sand.

  It all happened so quickly, and yet time stretched out as she saw each one fall, saw necks sliced open and chests mauled by a Roman gladius. Watched as one fell with his face hitting the sand first, and another drop to his knees and clutch his chest before slumping to the ground.

  And then there was only one. The man looked around and saw he was alone—and clearly thought better of his intentions. His gaze roved the group of her protectors, his face filled with indecision and then fear, then he dropped his weapon and fled toward the end of the pass.

  Decimus said nothing but flicked his head in the direction of the fleeing man. Two of the soldiers kicked their horses and took off after him.

  Decimus urged his horse forward until its head matched Cassia’s mount. “Are you hurt?” His tone had little of concern and more of a leader taking stock of his men after a battle.

  “They were after me.” Her voice shook.

  “Sent by your queen?”

  Cassia huffed. “She is not my queen.”

  He examined his men. There were a few injuries, but those not serious. They waited in the pass for the two sent ahead to return. When they did, their faces spoke for them. Cassia read anger and frustration—the last of the queen’s men had eluded them.

  “That cursed gorge,” the one in front called. “It’s as full of people as the Forum on market day.”

  “He disappeared into the rest of the Arabs.” The other drew alongside his partner. “And they all look alike.”

  Humorous as it was coming from these Romans, all pressed from the same mold, Cassia could not laugh. “He will tell the queen I am not alone.”

  Decimus scowled. “If she is alerted, we will be unable to find our way into the palace unseen.” He seemed to debate a moment, watching the end of the pass that led to the Siq. “We will return to camp. Give Corvinus this information. Wait for his decision.”

  “No!” Cassia pulled her horse to face his. “We cannot turn back. The Festival of Grain begins tonight!”

  Decimus shook his head. “It is a failed mission. We must regroup and plan another.”

  The ten men circled and started back at full gallop. Cassia hesitated, torn between her need for their help and protection and her desperation to return before anything happened to Alexander.

  But what could she do alone?

  I will never leave you or forsake you.

  She kicked her horse into a run but did not catch up with the soldiers until they reached the Roman encampment.

  They were in the commander’s tent within minutes, and he had the full report from Decimus soon after.

  Corvinus spoke when Decimus finished. “If we go in now, we are expected.”

  Cassia had hovered at the edge of the group, but now she pushed forward. “We must go in now!”

  Corvinus considered her, then his men. “If we do this thing today, it must be with more men, and with the troops at the ready here in camp. Their defenses will be prepared, and we must be ready to engage in full.”

  “Then do that!” Cassia knew her voice sounded ragged and tearful, but she did not care. “We have only a few hours before the sun is down and Hagiru will sacrifice my boy!” She gripped Corvinus’s arm. “Have mercy, Commander.”

  He patted her hand. “We will get ready as quickly as we can. There is good strategy in going in during a holiday anyway, but it will take some time. You must be patient.”

  Cassia nodded, grateful. But as the afternoon wore on and still Corvinus would not send out the troops, the separation from Alexander grew impossible.

  So ignoring the commander’s warning that she acted foolishly, as the sun started its descent in the late-afternoon sky, Cassia saddled her horse, swung herself onto it, and turned it toward Petra.

  She knew not whether the Romans would arrive in time, but she would be there.

  And when darkness fell on the High Place, Cassia would face Hagiru with God alone if that’s what it took to save her son.

  FORTY-TWO

  CASSIA BROUGHT THE HORSE ALL THE WAY THROUGH THE city. It might draw attention, but hiding had done nothing. Hagiru’s people must be everywhere, reporting on her actions and those of her friends.

  Friends.

  This was where the horse took her, to her friends, though she slipped from its saddle and used the lead rope when she reached the housing district. She wandered the streets slowly to judge whether anyone followed.

  Wh
en she believed herself alone, she directed her steps to Malik’s house.

  Would Julian be there? She had not seen him as she passed the tomb work site, though it was a holiday and the site would have gone quiet hours earlier.

  Cassia thought back over her encounter with Jesus in the palace cell, her new seedling of faith in Julian’s Savior. She longed to tell him of it, and to heal the wounds between them.

  The servant Shamir met her at the door and embraced her as though she had come back from the dead. “We did not know what had become of you.” He took the horse’s rope. “Everyone will be relieved.” He inclined his head toward the courtyard.

  “They are here?”

  He nodded. “The whole family, or almost. Still a few work in the palace, to watch over Alexander.”

  Cassia fought back the rising emotion.

  “Go,” Shamir said. “They will rejoice to see you.”

  Not all of them, perhaps. Julian’s words and his face the last time she had seen him left her unsure what he would feel at her return.

  She walked slowly to the courtyard, hearing Malik’s voice as she drew closer. He was teaching from Paul’s letter to the church in Rome, Julian’s favorite. His teaching seemed strengthened in some way, more passionate, more alive. What had happened to fire his voice in such a way?

  She rounded the corner, coming upon the group in the verdant courtyard with their backs to her, ranged on benches and the floor with their faces upturned to hear their teacher.

  Julian!

  She watched in wonder as Julian’s voice carried to her on waves of power. He did not see her there, so caught up was he with the truth of what he taught.

  “Do you see, my friends, there is now no condemnation to those in Christ Jesus, who walk not according to the flesh, but according to the Spirit? For Christ Jesus sets us free from the law of sin and death! The law is not able to do this, but God sent His own Son in the likeness of sinful flesh, that the righteousness of the law may be fulfilled in us!”

  She searched the room for Malik, concerned for a moment that something had happened to him, but he was there, along the back wall, his face glowing with the warm pride of a father.