A.D. 30

by Ted Dekker

  Unless my father was more god than man.

  I could hear the sounds of battle as they moved deeper into the city, closer to me. They ebbed and flowed and at times fell off entirely, and when they did, I would turn my head, listening for stretching silence, hoping against hope.

  But then another cry would sound, and the roaring of more camels, and the wailing of another slain. Thamud, I prayed. May the Thamud all drown in their own blood.

  Several times I considered fleeing, but I could not go. Even if I managed through miraculous means to make it to the desert, I would find no home in the sands, for I had no people but these in the palace Marid.

  Night came before silence finally settled over the city. Even then I expected yet another cry. Instead a desperate pounding on the door shattered the stillness.

  “Maviah!”

  I immediately recognized my father’s voice. I quickly laid my sleeping son between two pillows and ran to the door.

  “Maviah!”

  “Father?”

  “Hurry, Maviah, there’s no time!”

  I lifted the board and drew the door wide. My father rushed past me, shoved the door closed, and dropped the timber back into its slot.

  He’d discarded his aba and now wore only a bloody shirt and loose pants, shredded along one leg. His face too was red with blood, and his hands sticky with it. A long gash lay along his right arm.

  “Father—”

  “Listen to me, Maviah!” he interrupted, grasping my arm and pulling me from the door. “There’s no time, you have to listen to me very carefully.”

  He pulled his dagger from its ornate sheath and held the blade out to show me an unmistakable seal etched into the metalwork near the hilt: a circle with a V and a Latin inscription, which I could plainly read. Publius Quinctilius Varus. And beneath it the image of an eagle.

  “This dagger is from Rome and has great significance. It bears the seal of a once-powerful governor—Varus. It is very important that you do exactly what I say. You must swear it to me!”

  “Yes! Yes, of course.”

  “Swear it by your god!”

  “Under Isis, I swear it.”

  He took a deliberate breath. “You must take this seal from Varus to Herod Antipas, the Jewish king in Sepphoris. In Palestine.”

  I was stunned by this command, unable to comprehend what he was suggesting.

  “Take it to him and tell him we can give Rome direct control of the eastern trade route. The Kalb will be a friend to Rome. Tell him we can give Dumah to Rome!”

  “Herod of the Jews?” I heard myself say, dumbfounded.

  “Herod is the puppet of Rome.” He was speaking very quickly. “With this dagger, he will give you audience with Rome.”

  Rome? The thought terrified me. Rami was beholden to King Aretas, not Rome.

  “The king, Aretas—”

  “Aretas has turned enemy.” He flung his arm wide and stabbed a finger at the window. “That is Aretas! He gave the Thamud his blessing should Nasha come to harm!”

  I could not comprehend approaching this Herod on Rami’s behalf. It struck me as something ordered in a nightmare.

  “Then you must send another!” My head was spinning. “I am a woman—”

  “I must send my blood for there to be full trust, and Maliku has betrayed me.” I’d never seen Rami so crushed. “Shame has been heaped upon the Kalb. Five hundred have been slain; within our walls only the women and children live. We must call the clans to avenge ourselves and return honor to the name of all Kalb! We are thousands! We will rise!”

  “Then you must go—”

  “I cannot leave now—the Thamud won’t stop at Dumah. There is only you!”

  “How will Herod hear a woman?”

  “Because you are my daughter. And because you have this.” He held the dagger with a trembling hand. “We don’t have time now. Saba will tell you everything, then you will know.”

  I knew Saba to be his greatest warrior and his right hand, a tall black man who spoke with his sword better than with his tongue. All men stood in honor of Saba, sworn servant to my father.

  Rami was drowning in the great dishonor heaped upon him. Without honor, there was no life.

  But I could not see how I might restore that honor in the world of kings and armies. I was ignorant of the shrewdness required to influence kingdoms and their powers.

  My father saw my fear and took my hand, pressing the weapon into my palm. He was reduced to pleading, speaking in a low, rushed voice.

  “You must trust me, Maviah. The Romans bend to Aretas only because they have no ally in this desert to match him. We will sustain them in the deadly sands and fight by their side if required. We can give them the Dumah trade route and let Aretas keep the ones along the sea. Today we spit on Aretas.”

  “Aretas won’t allow this…”

  “Aretas won’t make war on Rome. They are too powerful. You must go to Herod. You must restore the honor of your father and of all the Kalb.”

  He caught his breath and pressed on.

  “You are the daughter of Rami bin Malik, honored of Varus. You are educated and speak the language of the Romans. I will protect your son, who is now my own. I have no other…”

  He wrapped my fingers around the dagger.

  “Take it. Go to the cave where the eagle perches, north. Saba and Judah have prepared and will take you to Palestine. You know this cave?”

  “Yes.”

  “I trust both men with my life. Saba knows no defeat, nor Judah, who is a Bedu Jew and knows their ways. They wait now with camels.”

  I knew already that I had to do as he said, for I was his daughter and slave to his honor. But I could not leave my son, despite the honor Rami bestowed upon him.

  “My son goes with me. I am his mother.”

  He stared at me, then nodded. “Then take our son. But you must hurry!” He strode to retrieve the baby. “Take the horse tied at the back. You can get out under cover of darkness. Follow the ravine…”

  A thunderous blow sounded at the door and we spun as one. Rami invoked the name of Wadd under his breath.

  Then another blow, louder still, shaking the wood to the frame while terror overtook us and we became like stone. There was no escape but through that door, because the window was too high above the street.

  On the third strike, the wooden slat snapped in two and the door flew open. There in its frame stood a bloodied warrior dressed in the black fringed thobe of the Thamud. But more than this, the dark scowl on the warrior’s face marked him as the enemy.

  Another Thamud with two behind him stepped past the first, wearing a red-and-yellow headcloth bound by a black agal. By the kaffiyeh’s pattern and the boldness in his eyes, I knew that this man was Saman bin Shariqat, leader of the Thamud, conqueror of the Kalb in Dumah.

  I glanced at my son, still asleep on the pillows. My son, who was now Rami’s only true son.

  My father stepped in front of me with one hand pressing me back and the other stretched out as if to hold the Thamud away.

  “There’s been enough blood,” Rami said, his tone now even.

  Saman bin Shariqat’s brow rose. “There is no more Kalb blood to shed in Dumah. I would not take the life of a sheikh when I can use it for greater gain.”

  “The blood of ten Thamud mingles with the blood of every Kalb you have slain today,” Rami said.

  “And yet you are defeated. Payment for many years of robbery, here in the seat of your defiled fortress.”

  “I’ve taken only what was mine to take.”

  “And now I do the same,” Saman said, mouth twisted with amusement.

  These were words of honor and retribution, expected among enemies. Yet it was absurd that Saman should count this massacre as blood money for Rami’s control of the trade routes.

  “I will allow you to live so that all Bedu may know my mercy,” Saman said. “But I swear in the name of King Aretas, whose daughter now lies dead on your account, that Rami
bin Malik shall never again utter a word of command.”

  “My Kalb will rise up and crush you,” Rami said, trembling with rage.

  “And yet your son, Maliku, assures me that the Kalb are already mine.”

  Rami remained silent.

  “I now take what I have won,” Saman said.

  Rami slowly dipped his head, then spoke, voice calm. “As is your right. My life is in your hands. Spare only the woman and her child.”

  Rami showed no fear. He had been bested by treachery but even this was, in its own way, honorable. He would now accept his fate, wishing only to save me so that I might return his honor by going to the Jews and then to Rome.

  But I too was at the mercy of these ruthless Bedu.

  Saman’s eyes lingered on my face for a moment, then lowered to my right hand, which held the dagger of Varus.

  “As the gods will. My son, Kahil, is going to show you my own will. With your blade.”

  The man who’d broken through the door stepped past my father, took the dagger from my hand, and shoved Rami toward the corner. The two warriors who’d accompanied Saman grabbed my father’s arms and slammed him against the wall.

  I watched, horrified, as Kahil lifted the very blade in which the hope of the Kalb now rested. I turned my face away.

  Still, I could hear the grunts of the Thamud. The slap of flesh against flesh. There was no struggle because Rami offered none—not even an objection, for he was a man concerned only with his honor now.

  “Take him away,” Saman said. “Keep him alive.”

  Only then did I dare look. They held up my sagging father by his arms. He trembled with pain; blood flowed from his mouth into his beard. I could see Kahil shoving something into his belt.

  Then I knew. They had cut out Rami’s tongue.

  I would surely have thrown myself at them if I hadn’t feared for my son’s life. I had no love for my father, but Rami had offered himself for our safety. It was the first time he’d ever shown me any kindness.

  He watched me as they dragged him toward the door. In his eyes I saw resolve and pleading both. To see the great sheikh so reduced filled me with rage, but I was powerless.

  Saman took my father’s dagger from his gloating son, wiped the bloody blade on his cloak, and shoved it under his belt.

  Already my mind was spinning with ways I might retrieve it. They were going to spare me and my son, but without the blade, I would have no hope of honoring Rami’s wishes. If I failed him, what would I be but bones in the desert, and my son with me?

  My only hope rested in that dagger.

  Saman strode toward the door, casting me only a passing glance. “Set her free. Take her out of my house.”

  And then he was gone, leaving me alone with Kahil and little Rami, who still slept.

  Kahil eyed me with interest. His lust for blood had been satisfied today, but men have many lusts.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Maviah.”

  Recognition dawned on his face.

  “Maviah,” he said slowly. “So this is the woman they speak about. The whore from the tribe that crushes up the bones of carcasses and makes them into soup.” He spit to his side. “The Abysm are worse than dogs. And yet the Kalb keep one in their sheikh’s tent.”

  I had no intention of upsetting him further, but I was pleased to see the desire washed from his face. His eyes now looked me over with disgust.

  “How can such a beautiful woman come from the dogs? You defile my father’s house.”

  I saw his hand only a moment before it landed a crushing blow to my face and sent me to the floor. I could have resisted. Though none in Dumah knew, in Egypt I had learned how to defend myself well. But resisting a man was the greatest of offenses.

  Take his abuse, Maviah. Say nothing. Save your son. Save yourself.

  When I pushed myself up, he was gone, and relief flooded my bones. I would gather little Rami and flee to the cave, where Saba would know what to do.

  But then I saw that Kahil hadn’t left the room. He was to my right, over my son. Now grabbing him by one foot. Pulling him off the pillows as if he were a sack.

  Terror found my throat. I screamed, blinded by rage and revulsion. I clawed at the floor and surged to my feet, throwing myself forward.

  “No!”

  But I was already too late. As if throwing out garbage, Kahil bin Saman pulled open the shuttered window and flung my baby into the night.

  I could not breathe. I could not think. I could only scream and watch, knowing even as I lunged for the window that my son was falling and would never rise.

  “Rami!”

  When I thrust my head into the opening, it was too dark to see the ground.

  “Rami!” I begged the gods for the sound of a cry, a whimper, any sound at all.

  But I knew already, didn’t I? I knew that my son was dead. And yet my mind could not truly know this, because it was blackened with such torment that it could not make any sense of that dark world beneath me.

  I had to save him.

  I did not care about the monster who’d thrown him from the window. I was compelled only by the ferocious need of a mother to save her child.

  I don’t recall running for the door.

  I don’t remember tearing down the stairs, or rushing into the street.

  I only recall seeing Rami’s still form on the stone as I raced to him. And then the feel of his warm skin as I fell to my knees and reached for his lifeless body.

  A terrible groan issued from my throat and I felt anguish pulling me into the abyss. It could not be! It was a mistake. A nightmare borne by ghouls.

  And yet it was real. I could see his broken head.

  The greater part of me died then, as I lowered my head to his back, pressed my cheek against his still body, and clung to his little hands and feet, weeping.

  I begged Isis to take me. I cursed the world for all its injustice. I despised every breath I took, and yet my weeping only grew until great sobs racked my body.

  “My son is still a boy,” a low voice said to my left.

  I thought it was my father, speaking to me from his spirit.

  “And yours only an infant.”

  I stilled at those words, confused. Then opened my eyes without lifting my head.

  It was the Thamud leader, Saman bin Shariqat. He was mounted on a horse, only just leaving, holding a torch in his left hand to light his way. But his presence was of no consequence to the dead, and I was as dead to him as he to me.

  Then the man grunted.

  A single dismissive grunt.

  The sound loosed a torrent of rage deep inside my chest. Though a part of me had died with my son, another part rose from the dead then, with that grunt.

  Filled with the darkest storm, I slowly lifted my head and looked at him, not seven paces from where I knelt over my son’s dead body.

  He shifted his gaze forward, as if to leave.

  The moment he turned I was on my feet and sprinting toward him without a sound. My father’s dagger was still in his belt, lit by the golden light of the torch.

  He clearly had not expected me to move. He had expected even less that I could move so quickly. And even less that I might attack with the ferocity and skill of a trained fighter. He could not know that the father of my son, Johnin, had been among the strongest and bravest of all warrior-slaves in Egypt.

  Saman dropped the torch to the ground and was grabbing for his sword when I reached him. But he was far too slow.

  I snatched my father’s dagger from his waist and thrust at his neck. He jerked back with a surprised cry, avoiding a wound that would have surely taken his life.

  Without hesitation, I dragged the blade through his thigh as I dropped to a crouch, then spun and slashed the horse’s neck through to the jugular. I could not leave Saman with a mount to give chase.

  The beast was already falling and Saman roaring as I sprinted for my son’s body. I had to take him with me.

&nb
sp; But Kahil, the monster who’d thrown Rami from the window, had entered the street and was running for me. And behind him three others who’d been trailing Saman.

  It took me only a single breath to realize that I could not retrieve my son and survive. I would be laden with his body. If I died, Varus’s blade, now in my hand, would be taken.

  Most in Egypt believed that the body must be preserved for the soul in the afterlife, thus they buried their dead in stone tombs or pyramids, depending on wealth and stature. The Nabataeans also placed hope in great tombs. But neither the Bedu nor I had adopted such beliefs. I prayed now that I wasn’t wrong.

  “Forgive me, my son.” I whispered the words with a last look at his tiny form.

  Then I veered to my left, breathing a prayer to Isis for his well-being in the afterlife, and sprinted for the darkness behind the palace Marid.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE DARKNESS was my friend as I fled Dumah on foot, often ducking behind trees and boulders to avoid the pursuit of Saman’s men. Had it been day, they would have found and killed me.

  I was a bundle of torment, torn between the desperate impulse to return for my son’s body and the need to live so that I could avenge him. Rage pushed me, guilt ravaged me, sorrow pulled me to my knees even as I stumbled time and again along the path beyond the city.

  It was with a black heart that I found the shallow cave.

  The moon cast a gentle light over the sand and the rock, enough for me to see my father’s dark-skinned warrior and two equipped camels that gnawed on tufts of desert grass nearby.

  Saba was dressed for the desert in long pants beneath a loose cloak that parted at his breastbone, revealing a powerful chest and a necklace of bones and stones that came from his homeland. His head was bald. A bow hung from his back and a dagger from each of his hips, fastened by a sash.

  Saba had seen me and waited without coming to my aid. Even when I stopped before him, he only glanced at the dagger in my hand, then studied me with wide eyes.

  I could not imagine how he’d survived the battle and retrieved the supplies and camels. Unless the camels had been prepared beforehand, in the event the Thamud attacked and Dumah was overrun.