A.D. 30

by Ted Dekker

  “The whore can scratch.” I could hear the amusement in his voice.

  He reached across his chest and jerked the cords that held his armor in place. Flung the leather molding to the side to bare his arms and chest for easier movement.

  “So, then… we fight!” he said.

  The crowd was chanting now, demanding I strike again. But I no longer had the advantage of surprise.

  Watch their eyes, Maviah. You can see them move in their eyes first.

  But I couldn’t read his eyes or face to anticipate his next move. How many hours had Johnin and I locked eyes to learn the subtleties of intention and more? It meant nothing now.

  My blindness suddenly loomed like a mountain and fear reached into my bones.

  Maliku came for me then, in long strides, running on the balls of his feet, crouched over with his sword held lightly.

  His blow, when it came, was like lightning, and I jerked to my left to narrowly avoid his blade. Then I swung my own, when his side was exposed.

  But Maliku was ready this time. He stepped into my swing, swept my arm wide with a thick forearm, and brought the heel of his free hand into my chin.

  I felt my head snap back. Heard my teeth crack together.

  The blow lifted me off the ground and dropped me onto my seat with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs.

  He was still coming.

  I threw myself to my right, rolling away. As I turned, his blade smashed into the ground, sending stinging dust into my eyes.

  My eyes.

  I blinked, frantic to see, but the world only darkened. My half-blind eyes had accepted the dust without closing for protection.

  Screaming now, I wildly swung my blade at his legs, which I struck, but without power, for I was still on the ground and had no leverage.

  The world was in a brown fog thickened by my panic. I had to clear my vision!

  Rolling to my feet, I ran to my right, knowing he was to my left only because I could hear him. When I looked, I saw only a dirty fog.

  Now flooded by fear, I tried and failed to blink my vision clear. I wiped the back of my hand across my face, desperate to see more than I could—a form, arms and legs, an enemy, anything that would give me the dimmest ray of hope.

  I was only a hobbled woman for Maliku’s blade.

  This is who you are, Maviah. Only the shamed daughter of a whore.

  Where was he? The crowd was still cheering, oblivious to my predicament. They’d come for a spectacle. Now they would see a slaughter.

  This was always your destiny, Maviah.

  I backed on my heels, breathing in long pulls, expecting a blow. But Maliku wasn’t ready to cut me down. His soft chuckle, close to my left, said as much.

  Swinging my blade in his direction, I found only the emptiness between us. Again, panic mounting. I could hear him breathing, hear the amusement in his soft grunt, hear my own heart pounding in my chest.

  Maliku’s fist landed then, on my cheek, hard enough to spin me around.

  Terror washed through me.

  It’s over.

  I began to swing my blade again, even without a target. But Maliku landed another blow, an open palm upon my left cheek. The crack of it filled my head with ringing.

  It is over…

  Only when I stepped back and let Saba’s blade fall from my fingers did the crowd realize the depths of my trouble. Their cries faded. Silence settled over the arena, punctuated by only a few calls, urging us to fight.

  “Maviah!”

  Saba… Saba was calling from my right.

  Shaquilath stilled him with a quiet warning. My fate was in my own hands. She had sentenced me to death, I thought. Shaquilath, not Aretas.

  I would let Shaquilath see what she had ordered.

  Distraught and drained, I began to walk toward the sound of her voice, knowing that Maliku’s blade would cut into me at any moment.

  “She runs to her black slave?” Maliku taunted.

  But he didn’t understand. I was the slave. And blindness once again my master.

  I kept walking, but now a terrible sorrow welled up from deep within me and I felt as though I might weep.

  Do not allow fear to bind you up, dear one.

  I was simply placing one foot in front of the other, expecting a blow from behind, when Yeshua’s tender words, spoken that first night in Capernaum, whispered again to me there in the arena. And with those words, the world shifted.

  Or I might say quieted, because Maliku said something behind me and he sounded far away. So did the calls from the arena.

  But the shift wasn’t only in sound, it was also in speed, for the world seemed to slow. My pace by half, my arms swinging at my sides as though in water.

  You will only lose what you already have.

  What do I have?

  I heard a very soft laugh that immediately reminded of Yeshua on the boat in my dream, unaffected by the storm. And I knew the answer to my own question. I knew what I had. He had given it to me in the olive grove.

  Sight.

  Sight to see all that I could not see with the eyes in my head. Sight to see that the storm did not threaten me. Sight to see that I dwelled in that kingdom called heaven. Sight to see my Father, who did not judge me. Sight to see that there was nothing to be afraid of. Ever.

  Sight to see Yeshua and his way.

  I took one more step, but now even my heart seemed to have slowed and I stopped there, in the middle of the arena.

  His words came to me again, the same he’d said to his disciples after calming the storm.

  Why are you afraid?

  His truth flooded me. Was I not the daughter of Yeshua’s Father? Had he not made the sea? Was the desert not his resting place?

  Had I forgotten so quickly? I had believed in Yeshua, yes, but had I known his Father? And was this not truly my Father?

  I could hardly breathe for the emotion that choked me.

  “Abba?”

  The word came to my lips as the simple question of a young girl looking up into the eyes of a king to know if she was his. The mere call of a sparrow.

  But it seemed to fill the whole world, now silenced and enshrouded by mystery.

  I could hear nothing except my own heartbeat. The entire arena seemed to have faded into a distant realm. In a faint whisper, daring to believe, I spoke again.

  “Father…”

  His response came from the stillness. A breath.

  His breath, flowing over me like life-giving water in the deepest sands. It washed over my face and down my neck and arms. Over my chest and belly and down my legs.

  You are mine, his breath said.

  “Yes,” I whispered, closing my eyes against tears that welled. “Yes…”

  Trust me.

  I felt my knees shaking. My tears spilled over and now trailed down my cheeks. I knew that thousands were watching me in the arena, and that Maliku might even now be raising his sword to deliver his final blow.

  Of all this I was aware, but only as a distant abstraction. For I was now seeing through the eyes of belief in a different realm full of mystery and wonder to be embraced as only a child can embrace.

  I was that child, made clean and perfect in the presence of her Father.

  In me there was no shame, for I was now born into honor. I was Rami’s daughter only in name. And even now I would put my faith in a new name, born of a new Father who saw only honor in me.

  A burning heat swept over my face, and there with my eyes closed, I saw more.

  I saw them all, crying out to know and be known. I saw Judah. I saw Saba and Aretas and Shaquilath and Rami and Herod and Phasa. I saw Maliku. Children, like me, crushed by the desert, longing for love.

  But they had not learned.

  I saw Yeshua and I wept. I wept because he too had suffered and so had learned submission, and then he had shown me the way to follow. I wept because I knew that his suffering was not yet complete, however it might come.

  But even
more, I wept because Yeshua had finally shown me who I was.

  I was the daughter of my Father. No harm could come to me. Ever.

  Do you have faith, Daughter?

  “I see…” I said, speaking through my tears. “I see…”

  It is only the beginning.

  The half of it, I thought. That half of Yeshua’s way was letting go of this troubled world to see another of peace and power. And how easily forgotten was that way. Had I not forgotten?

  The air was perfectly silent.

  But now I remembered.

  I stilled my breath and opened my eyes.

  I saw the arena swimming in my own tears. But the view was no longer milky.

  I could see?

  So I blinked. Then twice. The image of Maliku, not so far away, came into sharp focus. Shaquilath on the platform, much closer than I had assumed she’d be. Phasa and Aretas, beside her, staring out. Saba beside the camels. The guards with their tall spears, lining the walls, facing me.

  My sight had been fully restored.

  I turned my head and gazed at the arena. They were watching, uncertain and silent.

  “Your eyes…” Maliku was staring at me in confusion.

  In him I saw only a storm. A black cloud rising in anger to throw my boat over and drown me in shame.

  Was not the whole arena but another storm?

  Forgive, my master had said. Seventy times seven, forgive.

  Stephen’s thoughts came to me. To hold no grievance—this is to forgive. To take no offense at the fist raised against you. Only then can you turn the other cheek. This is the way of mystery. This is the way of great power.

  I looked at Maliku and saw no threat in him. Was he not only lost, as I had been? Was he not only looking to be honored?

  And Shaquilath, who stood on the platform not fifteen paces away, eyes wide. Did she not long for the same? Aretas as well. Though lost, had they not also been fashioned by my Father? Were they not my brother and sister?

  I saw the queen’s eyes shift and I followed them to see that Maliku was running for me. It was strange to see him so crouched, face twisted with rage, eyes fired with hatred. Strange because it seemed absurd.

  Such was my belief as I stood before them all.

  He angled directly for me, sword drawn and then slicing through the air. I could hear every piece of emptiness cut by that blade as it approached my head. See its movement as though in a dream.

  To avoid the blade, I needed only to step aside. So I did, watching it slice more emptiness, buffeting air across my face.

  Maliku’s momentum spun him, but he quickly adjusted his weight and brought the blade around for a second blow, this one aimed for my midsection, accompanied by a full-throated cry.

  Once again I stepped out of the way of his sword. I might have been able to do it with my eyes closed, I thought.

  And another thought, plain to me: Judah was wrong about Yeshua’s teaching on the sword. The master had indeed come to bring a sword, but that sword would be wielded by those who would take it up in anger. They would be angry because his way of love and forgiveness was threatening to those who did not embrace it. His way would divide even brother from sister, daughter from father. The sword, then, would be swung by those like my brother. It was not for the followers of Yeshua.

  I could not explain how these things were so plain, nor how my power over Maliku was gaining strength—I only knew it could, it would, it was. The spirit was like the wind, blowing where it willed—had not Yeshua said so?

  It was the way of mystery and wonders.

  The way of the mystic.

  When Maliku struck a third time, I thought he would harm himself with such twisted effort. So this time I reached out my hand and caught his sword arm at the wrist.

  His superior strength should have smashed my hand out of the way. His blade should have run through my chest.

  Instead, with little force, my hand stopped his arm as if it were a blade of grass.

  “No more, Brother.”

  He stared at his arm, trembling in my grasp. Then at me, eyes round with terror.

  “No more.” I plucked the dagger from his belt. “It is over.”

  My words washed over him and he staggered back, releasing his blade, which landed heavily on the ground.

  “Jinn!” he cried, still backing up. “She is possessed!”

  A murmur spread through the crowd, for this was a harsh accusation. It was said that these demons could give a person great power. Had not Yeshua been accused of the same?

  “She is possessed by the jinn!”

  We both knew that I could have picked up the sword at my feet and removed his head from his shoulders. But I had no such desire. I only pitied this lost jester.

  “Kill him,” Shaquilath said. “You cannot both live!”

  “She is possessed by the jinn!” Maliku cried, spinning to the queen. “She must be burned!”

  “Kill him!”

  In that moment I could not. My place was only to forgive him, perhaps because he was indeed my brother. I wasn’t sure I could kill anyone in that state.

  But the queen could not fathom such sentiments. So I turned to the crowd and lifted Maliku’s dagger in my right fist.

  “I have Maliku’s dagger.” My voice rang out for all to hear. “He is mine to kill. As easily as Kahil of the Thamud killed my infant son, I can take the life of the one who betrayed my father, Rami bin Malik, great sheikh of Dumah. This is my right.”

  Agreement rose on strained voices, crying for justice.

  “But he is my brother!” I cried.

  They quieted.

  Lowering the blade, I sliced my left palm and watched as blood seeped from the wound. I closed my hand, allowing the blood to leak between my fingers. Lifting my bloodied palm, I extended mercy as I’d seen Judah do with Arim, the Thamud boy.

  “As is the way of all Bedu, I offer my blood in his stead.”

  My words robbed the arena of its breath.

  “I invoke the Light of Blood,” I said. “Maliku’s death is now on my head, paid for by my own blood in the way of all Bedu. No man may harm my brother without harming also me. In this way I, Maviah, queen of the Kalb, offer mercy to my own brother, even as the mighty Aretas, friend of his people, offers mercy to all who are Nabataean.”

  For a long moment, the arena remained gripped by silence. And then a woman raised her voice.

  “Maviah, queen of the Kalb, the merciful! Maviah, queen of the Kalb.” In an instant it was joined by a hundred voices. Then by a thousand. Then by all.

  Five thousand souls who knew that only a king’s mercy could give them life. On any day, Aretas could as easily kill them as allow them to live.

  But I had offered mercy through my own blood, as was the Bedu way. The Nabataeans also honored this same way.

  The roar had become my name only now, chanted over and over:

  “Maviah… Maviah… Maviah… Maviah…”

  Even then I was only Daughter. Daughter of Yeshua’s Father, who was also my own.

  I lowered my bloodied hand and walked toward the stage. And still they cried my name.

  “Maviah… Maviah… Maviah…”

  My camel had joined those bearing Herod’s gold. Saba dropped to one knee as I approached and I let him give his honor to me. My attention then turned to Maliku, who stood by the stage, confused and frightened despite his show of bravery.

  I still didn’t know how I had gained such strength or whether it would last. I only knew that I had surrendered to a higher truth found in Yeshua. To my Father and his kingdom.

  Five paces from the stage, I stopped and looked at Aretas, who could not hide a thin smile. Then I lowered myself to one knee, placed Maliku’s blade in the dust before me, and bowed my head.

  I was Maviah, daughter to another king in a kingdom they did not know, but today I was also subject to this king.

  The crowd quieted at his raised hand.

  “Stand.”

 
I stood and looked at king and queen. Shaquilath, in her red silk dress wrapped tightly as was her way, towered in majesty, face set. But there was no anger in her eyes. Only wonder.

  “Your cunning knows no end,” Aretas said quietly. “The Light of Blood. Indeed.”

  I dipped my head. “Indeed.” He could not disregard the sacred tradition among a people so bound by it. Maliku, on the other hand, could even now take a blade and try to kill me. He was under my protection, not I under his.

  But any attempt on my life now would make him look foolish. As well, he would fail miserably.

  Aretas glanced at the queen, then sighed. “Well then. It seems you have earned what you sought. The power of a kingdom and the love of a people.”

  “I seek no power in your kingdom,” I said. “Mine comes from another.”

  “Oh? The kingdom of the Kalb has no power for you. It has been crushed.”

  “The kingdom of heaven.”

  His brow arched. “You are now a god?”

  “No. But I serve one. His kingdom is within, and his will is going to be done on earth as it is in heaven.”

  He studied my face, my eyes.

  “This kingdom gives you the power to see once again…”

  “Clearly.”

  He evidently didn’t know how to respond, but Shaquilath took advantage of his silence.

  “You are truly blessed among all Bedu, Maviah. Never have I seen such resolve and courage in one such as you.”

  She looked down at Maliku.

  “Your sister has spared your life, I suggest you use it well. Leave Petra. If you return, I will personally run a sword through your gut.”

  He started to protest.

  Shaquilath shoved her finger at the arching entrance. “Leave us!”

  Maliku cast me one last look, then turned and jogged from the arena, looking back once at the arch over the entrance before vanishing.

  “Your troubles with him are not finished,” the queen said. “He is your great enemy now.”

  “As he always has been.”

  She nodded, then looked at her subjects lining the stone seats in the arena.

  “When seeking greatness, one must face great challenge, you understand?”

  This was her apology, I thought.

  “And so you have,” she said. “And now you will be honored.” Shaquilath looked down at me. “I find in you a queen and a sister today.”