A.D. 30

by Ted Dekker

Shaquilath stood, incensed. “We are discussing matters of state with a slave from Egypt? We are in this predicament because of her.”

  “I am alive because of her!” Phasa snapped, standing to match the queen.

  The gathered elders alone remained seated, watching the four of us with interest.

  “What kind of lesser payment?” Aretas asked of me, ignoring both daughter and wife.

  “Whatever Herod might expect the king of Nabataea to demand,” I said. “The changing of the border to Perea, perhaps.”

  Shaquilath sat, looking on with suspicion. But the king was curious.

  “Perhaps a large payment in gold, enough to show the world his guilt.”

  “It’s brilliant,” Phasa said.

  “You must understand,” I said to Shaquilath, for I knew that she too had to be convinced. “You have nothing to lose. I take all the risk. Whether I succeed or fail, you will one day crush Herod, as is the Nabataean way. If I fail, Herod will be prepared, for he prepares already. But if I succeed, you may crush him when he is least prepared, at a time of your own choosing. What is there for you to lose in using me at my own risk?”

  They said nothing.

  “As well, what might I learn while in Herod’s courts that might benefit you? Did I not learn of his intentions to kill Phasa? No emissary from you could hope for that much.”

  They studied me, fully curious. “And if you succeed?”

  “Then you would restore my father’s honor in Dumah.”

  “You cannot succeed in this,” the queen said.

  “Then Herod will put me to death and you will be rid of me.”

  For a long while, no one spoke. Then Aretas sat and spoke to the guard.

  “Take her out and bring her when we call.”

  I bowed my head and followed the guard beyond the doors, which they closed behind me.

  So, then, I had cast my lot. And having done so, I began to imagine the task ahead of me. Faced now with their possible agreement to my plan, I wondered how I could possibly approach Herod with such a proposition and succeed.

  He was no fool. As cunning as Aretas. He would as likely put me to death or use me for his own pleasure as believe a word I said.

  I was a slave now to both Aretas and Rami. But I knew only slavery.

  I heard passionate voices beyond the door but could make out no words as I waited for long minutes. And then the door was thrown wide.

  “Come.”

  Without waiting to be led, I walked in and stood before them once again.

  Aretas sat beside his wife, who regarded me with arms crossed. It was she who delivered their verdict.

  “We have not come to an agreement,” she said. “But we will consider this plan further and with care. In either case you could not go to Herod soon, or he would surely expect foul play. These matters take time. No hasty demand for payment will be taken seriously.”

  I felt a moment of relief, for time would serve me well in preparing my thoughts, should they agree.

  “You will be returned to your cell and wait for our decision,” she said.

  To the cell? The air thickened inside my chest.

  “Until we decide, you stand in defiance as your father’s daughter.”

  “How long?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “We shall see. No less than two months.”

  My mind descended into a pit of despair.

  “This was not what we said!” Phasa cried. No—it was Shaquilath’s way of exerting her will. And Aretas made no objection.

  “Don’t worry, Phasa,” the queen said. “She will be fed well.”

  “I will be alone?” I asked.

  “Naturally,” she said.

  “And Judah?”

  “Will remain where he is as well. You are fortunate to be alive… no need to panic.”

  “This is preposterous, Father!” Phasa cried, pushing herself to her feet. “You cannot allow it!”

  “The whole world is preposterous, Phasa,” Aretas said in a tired voice. “She will be kept in good stead, you have my word.”

  Phasa looked at me, eyes desperate. Then spun to her father. “Then I demand you release Saba to me. As my slave.”

  “Whatever for?” Shaquilath demanded. “We have many slaves as beautiful.”

  “I will have the slave who delivered me to Petra and no other. And if any harm comes to Maviah, I swear I will seek vengeance. Saba under me, as a guarantee that she is well treated.”

  The implied threat could not be mistaken. If harm came to me, a warrior such as Saba could surely do harm if not caged.

  “Agreed,” Aretas said, giving both wife and daughter their fancy. He rose to his feet. “Give Phasa the black slave. Keep the Jew in chains. Isolate the daughter of Rami bin Malik in the dungeon and see that she is fed well.”

  Having made the matter clear, he turned and walked from the court.

  I felt ill.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THERE IS little to say of the weeks I spent in my cell with only cruel loneliness for company.

  They put me in a larger cell lit by an oil lamp. It had a stone floor, a passable bedroll with straw for my head, a pot for waste, and a wooden bench to sit upon. And they offered me two meals each day—both with bread, some meat and vegetables in the form of a stew, and water.

  All my physical needs were tended to, as Aretas had commanded.

  But as the time passed, my thoughts began to slip away. I could feel my good sense leaking out, like water from a skin that had sprung a leak in the desert. And I seemed powerless to patch up that hole.

  I had never known such deep loneliness as I did in those weeks, waiting without any knowledge of my fate. Worse still, I began fear whatever fate awaited me. The more I considered the matter, the more I became convinced that returning to Herod would end in my death.

  Perhaps my fear was heightened by my appearance, for I was coming to look nothing like the queen who’d first made his acquaintance. In that cell I began to stoop like a lowly slave, a scavenger from the desert, a memory of my mother eating the bones of the dead for sustenance.

  I was trash to be thrown out at the earliest convenience.

  Perhaps my fear was heightened by the knowledge that even kings could be crushed in a single day. What hope was there for a woman such as me, imprisoned at the whim of such a king?

  All the courage I’d found at Judah’s side soon left me. The words and presence of Yeshua, once so powerful to me, drifted away, as distant as a long-forgotten dream. When I did remember his words, they only mocked me, for Yeshua must have known that fear would be the end of me. Why else would he have singled me out over the others in the room that night?

  I saw only three guards, each in rotation, all warriors of lesser strength. They were taller than most Bedu and well fed, but not as well muscled, perhaps because they faced no danger in the dungeons. Of the three, only one, the oldest and thinnest—who wore a pointed gray beard and carried no sword—seemed even to notice me. He alone offered me a kind, half-toothed smile each time he set my dish through the bars and removed the waste.

  It was my impression that he might be daft. But not even he spoke a word to me, regardless of what I said. They were all under orders.

  So I spoke only to myself.

  At first I did so only in my mind, as I had always done. But after two weeks in isolation, I began to whisper aloud, if only to hear the words.

  “Pull yourself up, Maviah,” I would whisper, pacing. “You must hold yourself together. Your father depends on you. The Kalb depend on you. Only you can avenge your son’s death. You must stay strong!”

  But then I would think, Who is speaking to Maviah? I was speaking to myself, naturally. But who was I?

  “Your fate is your own doing, Maviah. You are the slave of an angry god who has already sent you to the underworld.”

  Then I would again wonder, Who is this I who is speaking to you? My mind began to twist around itself like so many snakes trapped in a box.r />
  Time became a blur to me, defined only by the second meal each day, when I placed a mark on the floor with a small pebble. Two months at the least, Shaquilath had said. It could be much longer, for the Nabataeans were known to bide their time, striking only when all was known and prepared. This was the way of cunning.

  If I had known that my wait would be only thirty or forty-five days, or sixty days, I might have counted the marks on the floor with hope. But how could I have any hope when I knew nothing of what was happening above the ground? Judah could be dead, and I would not know it. Phasa could have taken Queen Shaquilath’s view that I was a conspirator with Herod, and left me to rot.

  A month passed and I settled into a numbing routine of pacing and talking and eating and sleeping. And thinking always, begging my thoughts to leave me in peace.

  Only after thirty-five days did I learn of anything beyond my own thoughts.

  The first time Saba came to me I only stared at him beyond the bars, wondering if I was imagining him. His skin was clean and his head gleaming by the torchlight, and he looked at me.

  “Maviah…”

  And then I knew that he was real and tears rushed into my eyes unbidden. But I still could not move.

  “My queen,” he said. “What they do to you will earn retribution beyond any they have known. This I swear.”

  He’d called me his queen. Such a strange word.

  “Do they feed you well?”

  “How is Judah?” I said.

  He placed his fingers around the bars and cast a glance back down the passage, then spoke to me in a hurried, soft voice.

  “They say nothing of Judah. Every day Phasa inquires, but they say nothing. The Nabataeans are insane. I remain with Phasa only for your sake, you must know this.”

  I approached the bars and stared at him. His eyes were misted and his jaw flexed.

  “Am I your queen, Saba? I have never been your queen.”

  He hesitated. “Now you are my queen. To the end of my days, I swear it.”

  Why was I speaking to him of queens? I should demand to know when I would be set free. But he would have told me everything he knew. So instead I was speaking to him about queens.

  “You are mistaken,” I said, finding the words thick on my tongue. “The Bedu have no queen. The woman who stands before you is only a slave.”

  One of the guards standing in wait down the passage approached. “You’ve seen what you came to see.”

  Saba spoke with a conviction as deep as the color of his skin.

  “Do not lose hope, my queen. The fate of all Kalb now rests with you. The Thamud know no mercy. Keep yourself strong. Eat. Walk. Move!”

  “Come!”

  “Remember who you are,” he said.

  And then they took him, leaving me alone once again.

  I crossed to the bench, sat heavily, lowered my head into my hands, and wept, overwhelmed. He had called me a queen!

  Saba, the strongest of all warriors, perhaps stronger than Judah, unbending in his ways, servant to none but my father, had called me his queen. And yet he could not know how weak and worthless I felt in that hole.

  He had placed his hope in a woman who had known only slavery all her days. A woman who could not honor her own father nor save even her own son. A woman who had not fooled Herod, nor Aretas, nor any of the gods, nor any living soul.

  A woman who had fooled only herself by daring to believe, if only for a short time, that she was worthy of a man’s task.

  Nevertheless Saba’s first visit gave me some hope, if only in knowing that he was alive and well. And I did begin to eat every scrap they set before me, and walk much of the day, and keep my arms as strong as I could, if only to distract myself from the voices in my head.

  But his words also filled me with dread, for the burden of all Kalb was carried upon my shoulders.

  He came once a week, each time for less than a minute, only to see that I was not mistreated. Each time he gave me the same word, begging me to remain strong, vowing his eternal service.

  Each time I saw the rage on his face.

  Not once did he give me any news about Judah or offer me any further word from the court.

  To the best of my counting, I lived in the dungeons of Petra for eleven weeks all told, one of those in total darkness, seventy-one days in the second cell, never knowing what fate awaited me or Judah.

  I was sleeping when the door swung open with a terrible squeal.

  “Wake up.”

  I jerked up from the mat, mind yet clouded by dreams. The older guard who often smiled at me stood in the doorway, grinning. A second guard whom I did not recognize stepped around him.

  “The court awaits you.”

  “Now?”

  He grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet. I stumbled after him into the passage, where two more warriors waited. They bound my hands in shackles, shoved a bag over my head, and led me from the dungeons by a chain.

  I was barefoot and dressed in clean undergarments and a short, filthy tunic, but none of this concerned me. My mind was preoccupied with my fate.

  This time I did not walk with my head held high. This time I was not fueled by rage, nor filled with purpose. This time I could not gather my thoughts, and I could not see, and I tripped twice up the steps leading into the daylight, which I could see only as pinpricks through the cloth over my head.

  I wasn’t bound by fear but by a great uncertainty, for in that cell I had lost my way. Questions flooded my mind. I resolved only to follow the guard and accept whatever fate awaited me.

  They lifted me onto a camel, still hooded, and led me some distance away from the heart of the city, for the day grew quiet. The fresh scent of clean air filled my nose and lungs and the sun’s warmth gave me some courage. Then they couched the camel and ordered me off.

  I stood without sandals on hot sand for a moment before they tugged me forward, onto a stone path, up four steps, and into the cool of a building caged in silence.

  The hood was pulled from my head and I blinked in the dim light. They were there. Aretas and his queen, Shaquilath, sat behind a wide stone table fifteen paces in front of me. We were in a large circular room with a domed ceiling supported by tall limestone columns. Stone benches behind the pillars rose to an outer wall. Small windows permitted a little light. The floor under my feet was made of stained stone slabs set in loose sand.

  Apart from Aretas and his queen, only I and perhaps ten Nabataean warriors stood in the small arena. The soldiers, stationed to my right and left, all bore arms and awaited orders.

  Behind me the heavy door slammed shut, closing off the outside world.

  “Remove her shackles.”

  I turned to Aretas as the guard released the irons from my wrists and pushed me into the center of the room.

  The light streaming in from the small windows that ringed the arena was joined by the light of six tall torches, three on either side of the stone table. A single wooden door, now closed, led deeper into the building behind it. There were no other appointments in the room.

  Aretas slowly pushed himself to his feet and walked around the table, right hand at his beard, elbow supported by his left forearm, which lay across his chest. Today he wore a blue robe and a headband of leather inlaid with silver. Shaquilath remained seated, hair piled high as before.

  Wind moaned through the narrow windows above us. Why had they brought me here, to an arena that appeared rarely used, or abandoned?

  The king stopped in front of the stone table and studied me. “I see you are no worse off for your visit with us. As promised.” He glanced at the domed ceiling and indicated the room with a lazy hand. “Do you know what this is?”

  When I didn’t answer he told me.

  “Many years ago, after the death of Alexander the Great, when the Greeks were thrown into chaos, Antigonus the One-eyed ordered Athenaeus to crush the Nabataeans at Petra, for the whole world knew of our great wealth. They came at night, four thousand foot soldiers a
nd six hundred horsemen. But my ancestors, rather than rush into battle, hid in the vast cisterns while the Greeks raided the city, thinking it abandoned. The Greeks took much frankincense and myrrh and five hundred talents of silver and retreated into the desert two full days’ march before encamping to celebrate their victory. Surely you have heard of this great battle.”

  He waited for me to respond, and I cleared my throat. “No.”

  “No? The Nabataeans bode their time before descending on the Greeks while they slept. We slaughtered all four thousand foot soldiers and all but forty of the horsemen, so that they might take news of their defeat back to the Greeks as a warning. Did the Greeks learn? Of course not, but that is another tale.”

  He flashed me a grin and tapped his head with a thick finger.

  “Strategy, daughter of Rami. This was three hundred years ago. Ever since, the Nabataeans have ruled with superior cunning and strategy. Always patient, always allowing the enemy to succumb to their own greatest weakness. I’m sure you can appreciate such wisdom. It’s a matter of survival in this ruthless desert.”

  I gave a shallow nod.

  He scanned the walls. “We now stand in one of the great underground cisterns in which my ancestors hid from the Greeks. Many years later, our king Obodas reinforced it with these columns and made it a treasury. When our greater treasury was completed, he then exposed its walls and made it an arena for training and sport. Much blood has been shed in this room. Mostly that of our enemies.”

  The floor was stained with blood, then.

  “But this is not the point,” Aretas said. “There is too much blood spilled in the desert already. The point is that the Nabataeans have always outwitted those who would undermine our kingdom. And I have no choice but to do the same today in the matter concerning Herod.”

  Growing impatient, his queen, who’d watched us without any discernible expression, spoke directly.

  “It seems that your judgment of Herod was correct,” she said. “He’s officially taken Herodias as his wife. We’ve decided to grant you your wish.”

  A flicker of annoyance at the interruption crossed the king’s face, but he let it go. “Yes,” he said. “We’ve decided to grant you your wish.”