by Ted Dekker
The king’s warriors had given me garments for my entry—a blue tunic with a golden shawl and sash. Gilded thongs held the fabric close to my legs so as to give me freedom on the camel. My sandals were leather inlaid with silver.
I had veiled my face for the journey and none of the warriors, neither Herod’s nor the Nabataeans’, had seen my eyes. The head covering I wore now was black with a golden cord, and the lace before my eyes as dark.
I knew, then, that they wanted me to come as a victor, not as a slave. But Aretas had gone to extraordinary lengths to receive me.
The children ran out to greet us a mile before we reached the city. “Maviah comes with gold!” they cried, running alongside. “The queen of the desert comes with gold for Aretas, friend of his people!”
“They know too much!” Saba said, scanning the cliffs. If these children knew, the whole city must as well. “He wishes for us to be robbed?”
But we both knew that any fool who attempted such a feat would quickly perish.
Women stood along the cliffs, sending their ululating voices through the canyons, announcing our arrival for all. Men and women of all ages soon joined the children, watching from the side of the road as we approached, then surging alongside to match our pace. I rode in silence, swaying with the camel’s plodding gait, keeping my mind on the scope of my mission.
Like the good stewards in Yeshua’s parable, I had seen past my fear to bring these talents of gold to Aretas. And yet so far from the hills of Galilee, his way now seemed distant.
I had expected to be led through the streets of that great rock fortress to the columned temple where the king and his queen had first put me on trial. Instead we were funneled to the arena built into the cliffs on the city’s southern perimeter. It was into this arena that thousands of Petra’s inhabitants now flowed.
“He wishes to make a spectacle,” Saba said, riding by my side, tall and naked to the waist. His muscles were taut, glistening like crafted onyx under the hot sun, and the hilt of his broadsword lay by his hand, ready for the least of threats.
“Better a spectacle than a prison,” I said.
“Unless the spectacle becomes your prison.”
My smile was faint and forced. “I appreciate your worry, Saba, but you must now have faith.”
“I do not trust him.”
“Then trust me, if you must. Are we not here, with the gold?”
He was silent before offering me a nod. “Perhaps I speak too soon.”
“See the strawberries, Saba. Take your eyes off the beasts. Isn’t that what you told me?”
“As I said, I speak too soon.”
I nodded.
The guard parted as we reached the gates, making a clear path for Saba and me abreast, followed by the twenty camels burdened with Herod’s gold. We passed beneath arching stonework intricately carved to pay homage to the gods.
The moment we crossed into the arena, my breathing thickened. I could not see their faces, but the sheer number of those gathered pressed down on my heart. Many thousands filled the stone benches that rose from the circular arena floor to a height as tall as two temples.
A roar erupted as the throng stood. I could not miss the stage at the north end, graced by six in tall gilded chairs. Three of them I knew by their stature and dress: Aretas and Shaquilath, seated, and Phasa, standing.
I came to a stop and gazed at the people, for the moment taken aback. Saba said something, but his voice was lost in that cry. Why had Aretas gone to such lengths? Surely not simply to impress his people.
It was the way of kings to take full advantage of any opportunity to show their dominance. At times this was better demonstrated by taking gold than by shedding blood. And was this not Herod’s gold, delivered now to Aretas by great cunning?
I was only the messenger, I thought. The gold behind me was their victory, and I its honored caretaker.
I tapped my camel and nudged it toward the great platform, ignoring the crowd. Not until I had come to a halt ten paces from the stage did Aretas slowly rise and lift his hand.
The roar quieted quickly, leaving reverent silence in its wake.
Phasa hurried to the platform’s leading edge. “I knew you could do it! Isn’t this what I said, Father? I knew with Saba, you would best that old scoundrel!”
Aretas turned his head to her. “Phasa…”
“What did he say of me?”
“Sit!”
“Give me a moment to—”
“Now!”
“We will speak soon, Maviah,” she said, withdrawing. “And you, Saba.”
She hadn’t been heard by the crowd, I guessed, for she had not raised her voice.
Aretas walked to the steps and descended to the arena’s floor. He passed Saba and me without so much as a glance, focused on the camel immediately to our rear. The heavy leather bags sagged on either side of the beast to keep the weight low, and their straps were cinched tight by buckles. These Aretas quickly released before opening the flap of one bag.
The crowd waited as though without breath, eager for his verdict.
Aretas shoved his hand into the bag, then pulled it out, fingers wrapped around a fistful of gold coin. This he thrust into the air, turning about to show all gathered.
At once their roar shook the arena.
“No one defies me!” Aretas shouted. “No one!”
They raised their fists with him, taking refuge in their king’s unquestioned power.
“Is your king not the friend of his people?” he cried.
Their thundering agreement made words unnecessary.
Aretas lowered his hand and let the gold fall from his grasp as he stepped toward the chief guard, who stood beside my camel. A dozen coins plopped into the dust at his feet.
“Hold the camels at the wall.” He looked at me. “Set up the perimeter.”
The warrior barked formation orders, and fifty more warriors trotted into the arena armed with spears and swords. Under further commands, half took the camels’ ropes and led them to the wall, where they were placed in a long row for all to see.
The other half formed a quick half circle behind Saba and me, still seated upon our camels. I wasn’t sure if they were our guard or a new enemy. I could not see their expressions to judge their intentions.
Aretas had taken the stage again and now faced me, basking in the rhythmic chanting of his people.
“Aretas, Aretas, Aretas, Aretas…”
He lifted his hand again and the cries quickly faded.
“Today we have our victor.” He thrust his hand toward me. “I present to you Maviah, daughter of Rami bin Malik!”
Their praise crushed my ears. And Aretas let the cheer endure for a full minute before he finally motioned for their silence.
For a few moments nothing seemed to happen.
“He beckons you closer,” Saba said. I had missed his cue.
Rather than dismount, I approached the stage on camelback, so as to speak with him face-to-face.
“Welcome to my home, queen of the desert.” His soft words were not meant for his people. “It seems we may have underestimated you after all.”
He’d called me a queen. I dipped my head in respect. “Thank you, my king.”
“For all of this, I offer you honor, as I promised. Hear the people’s love for you.”
“I seek only your own.”
“Yes. Of course.” He looked past me. “And do you bring me anything other than gold?”
“Only word from Herod.”
“Naturally. Word. Word from the devil himself.” He looked back at me. “And?”
“He would have you know that he prepares for your armies even as we speak. He knows that this gold won’t stay your hand.”
“Does he? And what would lead our enemy to draw such conclusions?”
“I told him,” I said. “In doing so, I earned his respect and your gold. I also learned his state of mind, as you requested. As such, I have fulfilled my obligation to you.�
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He stood still for a few seconds, then chuckled softly.
“Your cunning matches only my own queen’s. Well then, as you say… you have satisfied my requirements and proven yourself worthy. Honestly, I’m quite impressed.”
“Thank you.”
Shaquilath stood and approached to stand just behind her husband, on his right. “Will you remain veiled before your king?”
So, then… they would see.
I lifted the veil from my face and stared at them through those milky eyes.
“Forgive me,” I said.
“Your blindness lingers?” Aretas asked.
“I can see what I need to see. All I ask for now is your blessing to return to Dumah.”
“Yes…” He lifted his finger. “Dumah. Of course. I would give you my blessing as promised.”
He was going to return me with honor? I could not have hoped for more.
“Thank you.” I bowed my head.
“Unfortunately… I am not the only one you must satisfy,” he said.
Shaquilath stepped up to her husband’s side and stood tall, like a statue before her people, making no secret of her power.
“You surprise me, daughter of Rami. In all the desert I have not known a woman like you.” Her tone was sincere. “It’s a pity, the way that brute Kahil blinded you. And yet you had your way with Herod.”
They had kept the crowd in silence for several minutes now. What were they waiting for?
“You would restore the honor of your father in Dumah?”
“Yes.”
“You would return to your home with the seal of Aretas to save your father?”
“If the king agrees.”
“You would rescue the slave Judah from all of his torment…”
I hesitated, because there seemed to be a challenge in her tone.
“Yes,” I said.
“You would then be a savior to your people. A true queen of the desert.”
“I only wish to restore—”
“But there is room for only one Kalb to command,” she said, cutting me short. “And the king has given his approval to another.”
She nodded to the chief guard on my right, and he lifted his hand, relaying an order to the warriors behind me. I glanced back to see them spread wide.
“To whom?” I asked, turning back to the queen.
“To the son of Rami, of course. The one who has made alliance with the Thamud on the behalf of all Kalb.”
My half brother. Maliku.
A knot gathered in my chest.
“Maliku,” she said. “We cannot support both you and your brother, who publicly defies you. Prove yourself by killing the one who betrayed your father, then we will support you. We will order Judah set free and support whatever outcome you can arrange in Dumah.”
Kill him?
Surprisingly, the notion made sense to me. In the ways of justice required by the Bedu, Maliku had already sentenced himself to death by betraying Rami. He was a cancer to all Kalb now—any restoration of honor and order among the tribes would demand his death.
But I wasn’t the one to do it, even if I could.
“You overestimate me,” I said.
“Oh, but I don’t think I do. The woman I saw throwing herself at Kahil knew more than mothering. You have been trained in arts unknown in the desert.”
“As I said, you overestimate me.”
“We shall see.”
No. I can’t see, I thought, and that too is a problem.
“Even if I find Maliku in Dumah and kill him, you wouldn’t know whether I wielded the sword. If you must have him dead, arrange for it yourself. I’m sure if you ordered your servant Kahil of the Thamud, he would be more than happy to kill one so familiar with betrayal.”
“But you too are fluid in betrayal,” Shaquilath said. “As I see it, you have betrayed both Herod and Aretas.”
It wasn’t entirely true, I thought. But the king beside her said nothing, content to let her fulfill her own demands in the matter.
“We would know your loyalty to Aretas only if you killed Maliku, as ordered by the king you would serve.”
The reasoning behind her demand for justice and loyalty was too sound to dispute. I had to earn myself more time.
“Then send me to Dumah and let me win the king’s loyalty.”
“There will be no need for that,” she said, lifting her head to gaze past me. “You will fight him now, in this arena. Only one of you will return to Dumah alive. That person will have the king’s full support.”
I jerked my head around and saw. I could not mistake the posture of the one who so despised me.
Maliku stood at the center of the arena, dressed in full armor, leaning on his sword.
“Maviah, champion of Aretas, will fight!” Shaquilath cried, fist thrust over her head.
Ten thousand voices joined in a cry of approval that shook my bones.
I knew then why they had come.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
SABA WAS the first to move, dropping from his camel and snatching up his sword in one fluid motion. He had taken four running strides toward Maliku before I spoke.
“Saba, no.”
He pulled up, a panther poised to strike.
“She defends the honor of Aretas!” Shaquilath cried, voice just above the din of the crowd. “They fight to the death!”
I stared at Maliku’s blurred image, unexpectedly filled with rage. Because of Maliku’s betrayal, the Thamud had crushed Dumah and cut out Rami’s tongue. Because of him many Kalb women had been raped. How many were dead due to this vile creature’s passion for power?
Twenty days had passed since they’d taken Judah—just enough time to go and return at a fast pace. Shaquilath had ordered they send Maliku to Petra then, in the event I returned with the gold. They had planned for this meeting all along.
“If you refuse,” the queen said, “then he will cut you down on this very ground. He cannot refuse.”
If I refused? Surely they did not expect me to better a man who’d trained his whole life to kill. Maliku was twice my size and strength.
And yet Shaquilath was correct: the path of my people’s liberation now ran through Maliku. If I died today, he would return to Dumah and rule with the Thamud uncontested.
Judah’s words filled my mind: We must turn the other cheek, but only to our brother.… Let the Romans reap the same end they have sown. If a man comes to take your life, am I to allow it?
I did not know if this was Yeshua’s meaning. But facing Maliku, I made it so. Maliku was no longer my brother.
I have not come to bring peace, but the sword to divide, Judah had said, speaking of Yeshua’s teaching. And in that inflamed state, I embraced the teaching.
Saba trotted back to my camel. “Maviah, you must not fight him. He is too strong.”
I slipped from my mount and landed on the dusty ground, jaw set.
“Give me your sword,” I said to Saba, eyes fixed on the shape of my half brother.
“Maviah—”
“Now, Saba!”
He reluctantly held the blade out and I took it from his hand, then snatched up the dagger he handed to me.
“Stay here,” I said, shoving the knife into my sash.
An image of Johnin crossing the arena floor, heavy sword in his veined hand, filled my mind. Our swordplay had been born out of intense attraction, and for months it had been the only way for us to spend time together. He’d shown me much, but it was his words that came to me now.
Show them no fear, and they will find their own.
Fear… that word again.
Speed is twice the friend over strength.
But I walked slowly toward Maliku, dragging the tip of Saba’s great curved sword in the dust behind me.
You’re smaller. Use the weight of the sword for you, not against.
The crowd quieted—Shaquilath wanted to hear. And so now they heard the scraping of a sword behind a frail woman who dragged the
heavy blade to her own death.
But I was not ready to die.
Was Maliku smiling? I don’t know because his face was only a blur. But then he spoke and I knew he hadn’t changed.
“The whore has survived,” he sneered. “I don’t know what that dog Judah sees in such a pathetic scavenger as you.”
Darkness swept over me. My hand tightened on the sword’s leather-wrapped handle. He was now only seven paces off and still leaning on his sword.
“The slave is alive. But he cries for you through broken teeth.”
His words stalled me four long paces from him.
“Greetings, Sister.”
I gave him a shallow nod. “How is our father?”
“He is silent. And now you see though leprous eyes.”
“I see clearly now. I see that your heart is as black as tar burned for fire.”
He chuckled. “A fire that will consume all—”
I leaped forward at the word consume and was halfway to him with blade drawn back before my sudden movement stole the words from his mouth.
I meant for that first blow to cut into his head, if only to silence the poison flowing from his mouth, but he spun away from me, a simple but effective evasive shift.
I adjusted the arc of my blade, now borne by my full weight as I twisted to bring its tip across his back. I felt the contact of sharpened edge and leather. Heard my scream rending the silence.
Then felt the piercing of flesh as the leather yielded.
Maliku grunted and stumbled before catching himself. I saw him instinctively reach for his back to check for damage even as my momentum carried me to the ground.
When they are distracted, Maviah. Johnin’s words again.
I released the heavier sword and grabbed the dagger from my waist while I rolled. He was there, with blood on his fingers, when I came to my feet. I let loose the knife then, while he was still confused by the fact that I’d cut him first, and it was halfway to him before he saw it coming.
He was too late to avoid it. The blade sliced into his side, below his armor. He staggered back again, like a struck bull.
The crowd erupted and I drank their courage, sweeping up Saba’s blade once again. In quick succession I had wounded him twice.
But Maliku only ripped the knife from his side.