A.D. 30

by Ted Dekker

  I looked around for a sign of this Judah but saw none.

  “Your father?”

  “He’s alive,” I said. “They cut off his tongue.”

  To this Saba offered no reaction.

  “And your son?”

  My resolve to be strong failed me at those words. Tears flooded my eyes.

  “They killed him,” I said.

  He wasn’t one to show emotion, but he didn’t hide the disgust that crossed his face. “Who did this?”

  “Kahil bin Saman. He…” But my throat choked off the telling of how.

  “The Thamud are a savage people,” he muttered. He took the dagger of Varus from me and motioned to the cave. “We wait. Judah will come soon.”

  I thought to ask him what he knew about our journey, for my father had said Saba would make all things plain, but my heart was too heavy. I walked to the cave and stood, at a loss, watching Saba, who squatted nearby, studying the night.

  I was accustomed to hardship, as are all mothers in the desert. A full third of children perished from hunger or disease soon after their birth. Indeed, among some tribes the practice of discarding female infants was accepted. But nothing can prepare a mother for such a loss. The depth of the night sky could not compare to the black void in my chest.

  And yet there was something new in that hollow space where my heart had once beat. A dark power that began to give me life. A purpose that fueled my desire to stay alive. A bitterness that burned hot and lit the path before me.

  My resolve to restore my father’s honor was now replaced by a terrible need to avenge my son’s death. As I thought of his tiny broken body on the street, nothing else mattered to me. I would do as my father willed not for the Kalb, but for my son’s honor. My hatred for the Thamud and for Maliku, who had led them to Dumah, became a black stone in my chest.

  I cursed Maliku. I cursed Kahil and all Thamud. I cursed the gods who had shown my son no mercy.

  Saba stood and stared into the night, and I followed his eyes. From the darkness came a man leading two camels, one of them Shunu, my own. This was then Judah, the Jew. He was perhaps twenty, near my own age, younger than the dark warrior. Unlike Saba, he wore a kaffiyeh on his head.

  He approached Saba, spoke quickly in soft tones while looking my way, then gave him charge of the camels and came to me. By the light of the rising moon I saw that Judah’s facial hair was neatly trimmed and his eyes were kind, set in a gentle face, distinctly Bedu. He was a handsome man by any standard, and as strong as Saba, though not as tall.

  Judah spoke to me with utter sincerity. “As I am the servant of Rami, sheikh of all Kalb, I am the servant of God and now your protector. I will take you swiftly to the land of my people.”

  I didn’t know how to respond.

  “I am deeply regretful of your loss,” he said in a hushed tone. “The Thamud are dogs.” He spit to one side, then raised a finger to the sky. “The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob will avenge you.”

  He lowered his hand and continued.

  “I curse Kahil bin Saman, and his father, and all of the Thamud who share in their treachery. God will smite them with his fist and crush their bones to sand, for they know no mercy.”

  A passionate man of many words.

  “And do your gods?” I asked.

  “Do they what?”

  “Know mercy?”

  He hesitated. “I have only one God, the true God. He shows mercy to those who keep his commandments and crushes those who do not.”

  He was the first Bedu I’d met who followed the religion of the Jews, though they were not so uncommon in some parts. I’d heard they worshipped only one god.

  “And do you?” I asked.

  “Do I what?”

  “Follow his commandments.”

  “But of course! As best I can. But I have been known to misunderstand them often and fail some on occasion.”

  “And when you fail?”

  “Then I must once again win his favor.”

  “How?”

  “With the blood of a goat or an offering of wheat.”

  “So, then, you have only one god who’s like all the rest. I would choose many over only one.”

  “Yes, but my God is far greater! The only true God. He will protect you, Maviah, for his servant is Judah and he has placed you in my charge.”

  I placed no value in his words, for no god had ever prevailed on my behalf. And if my father could be crushed in the space of one battle, what security was there for any ruler or kingdom, much less me?

  Still, Judah’s words were kind.

  “Thank you.”

  Saba had gathered the camels and led them toward us. They could not have been more different from each other, Saba and this Judah. And yet all three of us had a common bond. We had all come to Dumah from far away. We were all Bedu, if not by blood then in life. And we now all shared the same objective, to reach Herod.

  Judah’s eyes shone with pride. “You will see. We will take you to Herod and return to Dumah with the full might of Rome. And then, when the time is right, we will cut Rome off at its knees. You will see.”

  “Cut Rome off?”

  “They are tyrants!”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “To Rome? No. A lion cannot sleep with the hyena.”

  “Have you been to Palestine?”

  “My people call it the land of Israel. Call it what you may, the Holy Land belongs only to Israel. And, yes, I have been there. Though only once.”

  “When?”

  “As a young boy. It has been my dream to return. The elders of my tribe in the north traveled there before I was born.”

  None of this gave me great assurance. But I knew my father was no fool. I would have to trust his choice of Saba and Judah.

  “We must leave,” Saba said. “On foot to the flint desert.”

  We had four camels, three she-camels in milk and one younger male. Noisy animals, to be sure, always groaning and moaning and chewing cud with grinding teeth. Although I’d only recently learned the proper way to ride a camel, I found them far more personable than horses. Indeed, my Shunu, a fair-coated camel given to me by Nasha, was like a friend to me, as all camels were to their owners. They were as much pets as mounts and sources of fuel, milk, and meat.

  In the soft dunes and sands, the camel was far more adept than any mount, able to cross great distances at a run without need of frequent watering. Such magnificent creatures were indeed the land-ship of the desert.

  She-camels in milk were most valuable in desert crossings, for their milk offered sustenance where there was no water. A good she-camel could travel a full day at a trot and drink only every fifth day, while offering her rider two liters of milk per day. Indeed, so valuable was a she-camel’s milk that her udders were often covered so that her calves couldn’t drain her. If properly cared for, she might be in milk for well over a year after giving birth.

  The male camel, bearing no saddle, carried extra stores and, if needed, could be slaughtered to provide meat. Each animal was loaded with goatskins filled with water, enough water to make me wonder which route we would take. They also carried saddlebags filled with teas, herbs to spice drink and food, and flour and dates to be cooked with whatever meat we hunted along the way. For fuel, camel dung would suffice if there was no wood to be found. I saw blankets for padding and for warmth at night. No tent.

  To survive for many weeks in the desert, a Bedu requires only these supplies, a camel, and a knife, bow, or sword.

  I approached Shunu and rubbed my hand along her neck as she sniffed my head and flapped her lips near my ear. She was now my closest friend. Perhaps my only. Her calf had long parted ways with her—at times I was convinced she thought I was her calf.

  “Come, Shunu,” I whispered, taking her rope and guiding her forward.

  We walked in silence, single file, first Judah, then me, then Saba, who kept a watchful eye to our rear.

  If there was no trouble, it would tak
e us ten nights to reach Petra and another six to reach Galilee, I thought. But much could go wrong in the desert, and the trade route along the Wadi Sirhan was well traveled. Surely the Thamud would give pursuit. These matters I would leave to Judah and Saba. If I died I would join my son; if I lived I would avenge his death.

  We mounted when we reached the flint rocks, an endless bed of jagged black stone difficult for even a camel to negotiate. Still, a good tracker could follow the signs even here. The best would know from the dung and hoofprints precisely which camel had passed and when. It was said that some Bedu could remember the track of every camel they had ever seen.

  At the very least, a tracker could tell from the depth and shape of the track far more than I could. What kind of camel, whether she was in milk, which clan rode the beast, how long she had walked or run. And by the droppings, where the camel had last grazed, how long since she had last been watered, and where she was likely headed to find water, for they knew all the wells and how long any camel might go without drink.

  In this way the sands told the story of all who passed, as clearly as markings on parchment.

  But the flint beds would slow down any pursuit, which would have to wait until morning’s light. Crossing them was treacherous and the camels protested at nearly every step. My back quickly grew sore for all the jerking and swaying.

  Not a word was spoken, and I found no desire to break the silence. Our only accompaniment was the protests of the camels, who grunted and snorted every few steps, urged forward by our sticks, which we struck gently along their necks to keep them moving.

  Their objections were quieted somewhat when Saba instructed us to tie their mouths shut, but camels can speak even from their throats, and quite loudly.

  The end of the flint desert came suddenly, edging a vast sand that reached toward distant, towering dunes silhouetted by moonlight. There we stopped, gazing ahead in awe.

  “The Nafud,” Judah said, as if speaking the name of a god.

  The Nafud? But we were meant to go northwest toward Petra and Palestine, not south. I had assumed we were taking only a short detour to avoid detection.

  Judah offered an explanation even as the concern entered my mind.

  “They will expect us to have escaped north, along the Wadi Sirhan. At first light the Thamud will search far and wide for any sign of us, and their best trackers will find it, here, into the Nafud, which will give them great pause.” He seemed delighted with this. “Few can pass through this desert without proper preparations. They will assume we are dead.”

  I nearly said that the assumption would be warranted. The shifting sands of the Nafud were well known to reduce human and beast to white bones. They formed a wall that had long protected all of southern Arabia from the northern kingdoms of Persia and Greece and Mesopotamia, which had long sought her treasures. The few wells were far apart and often dry, the fiery sun treacherous, the blowing sands a storm of wrath that could blind the eyes and strip the flesh. I understood the desire to avoid the enemy behind us, but was the Nafud any less a foe?

  As I looked at the distant, immense dunes, a chill cut through my bones.

  “I have been across,” Saba said quietly. “It is difficult but passable. The stars will lead Judah by night; the sands will lead me by day. Though we both read sand and stars, we have our strengths.”

  “They will not pursue us here, Maviah,” Judah said, smiling. Did this confidence come from his noble spirit or simple stupidity?

  And then I remembered what my father had said about Judah. He and Saba both—the best men he knew. Still, I thought they should be very clear about how strongly I’d motivated the Thamud.

  I stared ahead and spoke softly. “I slashed Saman’s leg and cut his horse’s throat,” I said. “While he was yet mounted.”

  I could feel their eyes on me. Their silence stretched.

  “He was upset,” I said.

  “Saman bin Shariqat?” Judah asked, as if still trying to believe.

  “I was angry,” I said.

  “You did this?”

  “Only because he pulled his own throat away from my blade. The same blade he took from my father after cutting out his tongue with it.”

  A light sparkled in his eyes. “Then he is now a rabid dog.” He faced forward and whistled softly. “God has given us an avenging angel in Rami’s daughter.”

  No, I thought. It wasn’t any god’s doing.

  “Such an insult wasn’t wise,” Saba said.

  “An insult?” Judah scoffed. “And did Bin Shariqat not insult the daughter of Rami?”

  Saba looked none too pleased but held his tongue.

  Judah did not. “My only envy is that it wasn’t my hand at his throat. He would be dead already.”

  His unwavering self-assurance calmed me.

  “Also,” I said, “Maliku is allied with the Thamud.”

  Saba turned his head and stared at me.

  “You know this?”

  “Saman spoke of it. My father as well.”

  He grunted. “The fool doesn’t yet know the depths of Thamud treachery. What is born of blood will only grow in that same blood. This is Maliku’s fate.”

  “And ours is now a promised land,” Judah said. “There we will find the makings of a new fate at God’s hand.”

  And yet neither of them seemed anxious to head into the Nafud to find Judah’s promised land.

  My mind returned to the dagger I was to show Herod.

  “My father told me you would tell me about the dagger, Saba. Our lives depend on it. I would know.”

  He nodded, then spoke in a low tone, eyes fixed on the dunes.

  “Many years ago, long before you were born, before Rami was sheikh, he was well known for his command of men in raiding. The Nabataean king, Aretas, had heard of him and called upon him to prove his might in the land of the Jews.”

  “Palestine? Rami?”

  Judah spoke. “The Jews have always resented the Romans, who rule them with Jewish kings who have Roman hearts. Herod Antipas is king in Galilee now, but his father ruled as a butcher, and when he died, the people rose up in rebellion led by a Zealot named Judas bin Hezekiah. A great man in the eyes of many. It was Judas the Zealot that Rami went to crush.” He paused. “And for this I forgive him still.”

  I knew then that Judah’s heart was divided.

  “Why would the Nabataean king call the Bedu to Palestine?” I asked. “This is Roman business, not Nabataean.”

  “These are complicated matters of kingdoms, not best understood by women,” Saba said.

  Judah wasn’t as dismissive of me. “She has a right.” He faced me. “Palestine was in the charge of a powerful Roman governor named Varus, who found his charge threatened by the rebellion of the Jewish Zealot, Judas. And so Varus called on King Aretas of the Nabataeans, because Nabataea borders Palestine and would also be threatened if the Zealots could not be crushed. Also, Aretas owed the Romans a favor. Thus Aretas called on the Bedu, through Rami, to aid him. You see how it works… the Romans call on the Nabataeans and the Nabataeans call on the Bedu. There are no warriors so great as the Bedu.”

  “So my father went on Aretas’s behalf, forming an alliance.”

  “Yes,” Saba said. “Rami took a thousand Kalb, the best of raiders, to ride with the Nabataeans into Galilee, to the city called Sepphoris, which had been overtaken by the Jewish Zealots. Together with Varus’s army, they crushed the revolt in Sepphoris and burned the city to the ground. The Zealots fled. It was a great victory.”

  Judah spit to one side.

  “For Rami and Rome, not for my people. After he left Palestine, Varus went throughout the south, hounding the Zealots to a bitter end. His army crucified over two thousand in one month alone. Truly, all Jews mourn them still.”

  I was familiar with the Roman crucifixion—a brutal death sentence meant to terrify those who saw victims hanging on the tree as much as to punish the guilty. I did not relish being witness to such a scene.
/>   “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Saba seemed unconcerned.

  “To honor Rami, Varus presented him with his own dagger. Rami returned from Galilee a victor in the eyes of both the Romans and Aretas, and for this the Nabataean king honored him, years later, with full control over all trade through Dumah, sealed by his marriage to Nashquya, daughter of Aretas. In her death, he will now see Rami as enemy.”

  I understood the rest: the Romans and Herod would give me audience because they owed Rami a debt of gratitude, to be proven by the dagger.

  We sat on the camels in silence.

  “But now,” Judah said, looking into the desert, “our greatest enemy is the Nafud.”

  He turned his gaze to the stars and I knew he was reading them, for the Bedu trackers find their way at night by the lights in the sky.

  “One stage south, then twelve stages west to Aela,” he said. “From there, north into Perea, Decapolis, and to Galilee. Perhaps we will find him there.”

  “Perhaps? Herod is in Sepphoris.”

  “Yes, of course. Herod.” Judah said this as if he’d been thinking of someone else. He lovingly scratched his camel’s neck, for he, like most Bedu, was very fond of his mount. Her name was Raza and she leaned into his fingers.

  “Herod, who conspires with Rome for the ruin of all Jews,” he said absently.

  Again he betrayed the conflict in his heart. Though a servant to my father vowed to deliver me into an alliance with the Romans, he despised all that was Roman. He was as much a Zealot as a Bedu, and his desire to reach Palestine was directed by something even deeper than his loyalty to Rami.

  “We go,” Saba said.

  “To glory or to our graves,” Judah said. Then he turned to me, eyes bright. “But at my side it will only be glory.”

  Saba grunted. He slapped his camel with his riding stick and urged it toward the dunes.

  I nudged Shunu to follow, keenly aware that our fate, whatever it might be, was now sealed, for there is no forgiveness in the Nafud.

  THE NAFUD

  “Truly I tell you, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies,

  it remains only a single seed.

  But if it dies, it produces many seeds.”