CHAPTER NINETEEN

LIKE A STORM in the desert, the events surrounding our departure from Sepphoris were full of flurry and motion.

In her letter, carefully crafted with my help, Phasa made her claims explicit. She had no choice but to find safety with her father, King Aretas of the Nabataeans, until all rumors of marriage to Herodias were settled, because she feared for her life. Distrusting any Roman or palace guard, she had forced Maviah, daughter of Rami bin Malik of Dumah, to accompany her. Upon reaching Petra safely, she would send the slaves back for Herod to deal with as he wished, for they were of no concern to her.

“It will eat at his gut,” Phasa said with triumph. “If he denies his love for Herodias, she will quickly spit him out. He’s crossed the threshold. He will have to divorce me.”

“Then it is to your benefit,” I said.

“It is! You have come as my savior!” She kissed me on the cheek. “My only regret is that you did not happen by ten years ago.”

Phasa was willing to face any danger in flight for the prospect of freedom in her father’s courts. I, on the other hand, was fleeing to my enemy’s stronghold, and whispers of impending doom refused to be silenced.

Our journey would take us six days if we traveled light, and it took considerable persuasion on Judah’s part to pare down Phasa’s mounds of jewelry to two saddlebags’ worth. Each saddlebag of gold would surely give any pursuer a half day’s gain on us, he insisted. Phasa could live with less treasure easily replaced in Petra or die with gold enough to fill her coffin.

She acquiesced, taking only the most expensive pieces.

We left in staggered fashion so as not to raise suspicion, then reunited outside the city—four Bedu on camelback, supplied for a week’s journey.

If not for Saba, who knew of ways far off the traveled paths, we might well have been intercepted by a dispatch on horseback. As it was, he led us south through little-known wadis toward the encampment of Nabataeans east of Machaerus. We slept in the heat of the day, far from any sign of human life, and traveled by night into morning at a trotting pace.

By the second day we knew that we had escaped the greatest danger of pursuit and slowed our pace to save the camels.

By the third day we knew that there was nothing now to stop us from reaching Petra, and Phasa’s spirits soared.

By the fourth day, with exhaustion now working into our bones, Saba’s words concerning Aretas began to overtake my mind like heavy boulders. But I said nothing. I rode with my shoulders square to the horizon, clinging to the words Yeshua had spoken to me.

Do not allow fear to bind you up, dear one. You will only lose what you already have.

And what did I have?

I had a love for Judah that I clung to with my every thought. I was a queen because of him and only with him. We spent many hours talking quietly to the rear of Saba and Phasa, and with each day our bond grew. Although it was true that our mission rested on my shoulders, I rested the strength of my heart on his. From the first day we entered the Nafud weeks earlier, he had been the rock upon which I had built my house.

I had the authority given me by Yeshua, though I hardly understood it.

I had the fate of the Kalb in my hands.

I had myself. Maviah, daughter of Rami, once honored sheikh of northern Arabia.

Could it be true that I too was the light of the world, as Yeshua had said to us all? Was it true that those who followed him would do greater works than even he? Was it true that a kingdom full of power and light resided inside me even as I rode atop my camel?

Or had he meant something else? For no one seemed certain of his meaning, only that he called all to follow.

Yet what did it mean to follow him?

Judah and I spoke often of Yeshua. In Judah’s mind the kingdom was at hand to deliver Israel from oppression from Rome. The way of Yeshua, he said, was to use the power of love and goodness to free all people from tyranny. Evildoers must be thrown into outer darkness for their treachery. Because the day of restoration would come any day now. Even now. And what was outer darkness but their own misery? They would reap what they had sown.

“We must love, of course!” he said. “And, yes, we must turn the other cheek, but only to our brother. This is what he meant when he said he had not come to bring peace, but a sword to divide, even brother from brother if they will not join him.”

“It doesn’t seem to fit with the man I saw and heard,” I said.

“Because you do not know the way of the warrior as I do. We must also protect the widows and the orphans and those who cannot protect themselves from those who refuse love. Let the Romans reap the same end they have sown. If a man comes to take your life, am I to allow it?”

No, I thought.

“If a warrior comes to slay the innocent among us, are we not to discourage him with the sword?”

I thought of my son.

“Yes.”

“There you have it,” he said. “Love first even the enemy, but if need be, love them finally with the blade!”

It made sense to me. So, then, perhaps we had heard the same. But it bothered me still.

I abandoned such difficult thinking and concerned myself instead with the Father Yeshua had spoken of so intimately. That Father who did not judge. The god of the kingdom of heaven now among us. Indeed, within me.

Was it possible to be the daughter of such a Father? I had never before heard of such a god. Isis certainly wasn’t so gracious.

If it was possible that Yeshua’s Father god could also be mine, could his power come to my aid as I stood before Aretas?

As we drew near to Petra, my only consolation was that Phasa had sworn to be my most spirited advocate. Her father would listen, she said. As for Shaquilath, his hotheaded queen, she could offer no assurances.

We arrived at Petra on the sixth day. I had not adequately prepared myself for that great city of stone.

Upon our approach we encountered a caravan southeast of the city. At least a thousand camels plodded in line, heavily laden with spices from Hadhramaut in the deep south, we were told. For many months they had traveled the southern trade route parallel to the Red Sea. I was immediately taken back to Dumah, where I’d witnessed the arrival of many such caravans.

Once again I was surrounded by the roar of a thousand camels as they were couched outside the city while the traders made entry. The scents of their frankincense and myrrh, mixed with the odors of the beasts that carried it, offered me some solace. And the Bedu who smiled as they lazily guided the camels…

These were my people. Though raised in Egypt, I was Bedu. I could not help but ponder what role I would play in their lives and they in mine.

We parted ways with the caravan as we approached the grand entrance to Petra—four travelers unnoticed, for there many were coming and going from that great pillar of trade.

Towering red sandstone obscured my view of the city. Tall columns were built directly into the face of the mountain. These rose a hundred feet, hewn into the cliff wall.

“It is a temple?” I asked.

“A tomb,” Phasa said. “A facade only, to mark the burial of a royal. We are Nabataeans, Maviah, lords of the world, you will see. This is nothing, I will show you.”

And she was right. We passed many such monuments to the dead, as well as an expansive arena carved from the mountain, large enough to seat five thousand, she said. It was new, the pride of her father.

Yet none could compare to the magnificence of Petra’s heart. We entered the main stone colonnade, a perfectly ordered street bordered by towering columns that faced the Jebel mountain, from which more great monuments had been cut, glowing red in the sinking sun. Merchants everywhere traded their wares—sparkling treasures and spices and fabrics from the farthest reaches, some having undoubtedly passed through Dumah.

We were soon in a red canyon carved with many channels that collected and diverted water into massive cisterns. The big rains came only a few times each year, but Petra’s people had mastered the art of collecting and preserving water long before any other, Phasa told us.

Only in this way could such an impenetrable city survive in the desert. Many had come against Petra for her wealth. None had succeeded. Not the Romans, nor the Greeks before them. None ever would.

And none could enter Petra and not wonder at the power of her king. To build such structures had surely taken many lifetimes.

Everywhere I looked I saw majestic architecture, greater by far than any in Sepphoris, if only because it had all been carved into the rock itself. Phasa insisted on showing us the city’s greatest features before making entry into her father’s courts.

The walled city itself was not so large, for most homes were on the slopes above the city, and the thousands who came and went by camel couched in massive camps to the south. Not so large, but glorious.

And unique in another way. The women dressed casually, at times scandalously, baring more skin than I was accustomed to. Their fabrics were rich in color and they were free to laugh on the streets. This place was more Greek and Roman than of the desert. Everywhere I looked I saw wealth. Petra was drenched in it.

This was the seat of Aretas, and the Bedu were a mere footstool to be kicked aside.

“But now you will see where the true power of Petra sits,” Phasa announced, and she led us toward what appeared to be a great temple.

Steps rose to a huge terrace with three rows of columns on either side. I assumed this to be the temple to the Nabataeans’ patron gods. Did Aretas then rule from a temple?

I glanced at Judah, who had remained silent, as had Saba, for they both knew that their lives were now in the hands of Phasa. He saw my look and offered an encouraging nod.

“Remember Yeshua’s words, Maviah. Remember who you are.”

“I am the enemy of Aretas,” I replied.

“You are the savior of Phasa, his daughter. And Saba is her pet.”

Saba glared at him but said nothing. His muscles were taut under dark skin glistening in the sun.

“Do not fret, Maviah,” Phasa said, turning on her mount. “We are home.”

And yet I did worry.

We reached the foot of the steps and Phasa angled for a guard on station there. “Send word to Aretas,” she said. “Tell him that Phasaelis, his daughter, has arrived from Galilee and would seek his audience immediately.”

The guard stood still.

“Are you deaf?”

He glanced at two others, one of whom must have recognized her, for he took a knee.

“My lady.” He bowed his head.

“At least someone recognizes the daughter of their king when she presents herself. Have these camels quartered and bring the packs. I carry valuable cargo.”

They hurried then, four of them running not as guard but as slaves—three to the camels and one into the courtyard to relay her message. The guard in Herod’s courts did not jump for the queen as they did here.

“Come,” Phasa said.

I held myself erect as I followed by Judah’s side, aware that I was not dressed for my role. The clothes I wore were Phasa’s, made for travel, not for court. The fitted blue-and-brown tunic was made of the finest hide, and loose gathered slacks fell to sandals strapped to my calves with leather binding. My hair was braided and tied back with a blue band about my forehead.

At my waist I carried the dagger of Varus.

Judah and Saba were dressed as warriors and carried both knives and swords. Only Phasa wore a cloak—black—but not one so extravagant as to bind her as she rode.

She walked now with fire in her eyes and head held high, directly up the steps and into the courtyard, which stretched between the towering columns to another series of steps and the inner courts.

“This is the palace?” I asked.

“This is where my father conducts all of his affairs. He lives elsewhere. You will see, Maviah.” She looked at me. “Only let me speak. Say nothing out of turn.”

“Of course.”

We were halfway to the inner courts when a servant dressed in a white tunic hurried down the steps and ran to Phasa, bowing. “Phasaelis, daughter of Aretas, friend of his people. The king awaits.”

“Lead us.”

The servant lifted his head and glanced at Judah and Saba.

“They are my slaves. Lead us!”

“Of course, my lady.”

He led us up the steps into a grand room that at first appeared to be a theater. Or a court. Seats ran on either side, facing a bare marble floor, finely carved and inlaid with rich colors. Everything my eyes saw spoke of exquisite workmanship and vast wealth, from the rich drapes to the golden lions positioned on either side of the entrance.

Light streamed in from windows near an ornately tiered ceiling arched in the Roman way.

“Phasa!” The voice thundered from a raised platform across the theater, and I lifted my eyes to see the true seat of power in Petra.

There, beyond yet another flight of five steps and four columns, stood two thrones made of silver and wood. On either side, fixed stone tables ran the length of the landing. Sculptures and tall lampstands made of silver appointed the platform.

“Phasa!”

A man with graying hair rushed down the steps. His beard was drawn to a point and tied with cords. He was dressed in a loose multicolored robe, untied in the front to show white undergarments. His feet were bare and slapped on the marble floor as he hurried forward.

By the golden rings on his fingers and the silver bands on his wrists and forearms, I knew immediately that this was Aretas.

He stretched out his arms and cried out as if he’d found his only treasure.

“Phasa, love of my life! You have returned to an old king before his death. Al-Uzza has answered my prayers!”

He threw his arms around her and held her close, and for a moment I thought he might weep for his joy.

She kissed his face and beard. “Father, how I missed you!” I thought she too might burst into tears. Arabian blood ran thick in their veins.

I glanced up and saw that a woman of elaborate tastes, taller by a hand than Aretas, had left the table where they were feasting with several other royals and was striding to the edge of the platform. Unlike Aretas she was dressed in perfect fashion, red and purple silk drawn tight around her slender frame. Jewels sparkled where skin was to be seen, and her dark hair was piled high, bound in place by thin golden cords.

She did not hurry down the steps—doing so might have caused her to trip, for her gown was narrow to her sandaled feet.

This then was Shaquilath.

Phasa was the daughter of Aretas by his first wife, born before Shaquilath had become queen.

“Shaqui!” Aretas cried, turning back. “You see who has come to visit us.”

“I see.” The queen’s mouth formed half of a smile. “And to what do we owe this pleasure?”

Phasa offered a slight bow, but her tone was less exuberant with the queen. “It is my greatest pleasure to see you as well, Mother Queen.”

“You are well?” Aretas demanded of Phasa.

“Of course, Father. And now that I am in your court, I am the most favored daughter known to the world.”

Aretas took Phasa’s hand and pulled her toward the landing. “Join us in drink and food. You must tell us about your journey. Everything. We weren’t told of your plans. Why did you not send word?”

Saba, Judah, and I were left standing in the middle of the floor. None of us had thought to bow. Unsure, I remained still.

They had reached the foot of the steps leading up to the thrones and banqueting table when the queen spoke.

“Aretas?”

He stopped and glanced up. “Yes?”

“Who are they?” Shaquilath stared at us without pointing.

Only now did Aretas become aware of our presence. He looked back and stared at us, then at Phasa for explanation.

“They are my slaves,” Phasa said, smiling. “My guard. How else would you have me cross such treacherous ground to reach my father?”

“They are Phasa’s slaves,” Aretas said, satisfied. Then to a servant, “See that they are fed and bathed.” Then to Phasa, “Come.”

“And why are your slaves Bedu from the desert?” Shaquilath asked, not in an accusing voice, but still firm. “Where is Herod’s guard?”

Sweat clung to my brow and my heart beat heavily, for it knew too well the danger at hand.

“Judah and Saba could slay ten of Herod’s guard,” Phasa said. “There is no match for the Bedu save the Nabataeans.”

Why was she delaying the simple truth?

“There you have it,” Aretas said. “Judah and Saba. Only the strongest for any daughter of mine.”

“And the woman? What is her name?” Shaquilath pressed.

Phasa hesitated, but would not lie.

“She is Maviah. Daughter of the desert. As strong as any man.”

Stillness fell upon the room and I knew immediately that my name was known.

“Maviah,” Aretas said, slowly turning back to me. His countenance had shifted. “And where does Maviah come from?”

“From Dumah,” Phasa said.

“From Dumah. Who is your father?”

I, no more than Phasa, could undermine my character by lying, so I did not hesitate.

“I am Maviah, daughter of Rami bin Malik.”

Aretas released his daughter’s hand and glared. He strode toward me, glancing first at Judah and Saba just beyond me.

“The daughter of the sheikh who fails me comes to my court with my own daughter?”

“The daughter of Rami, the great warrior who brought you great honor at the side of Varus. Rami, the conqueror whom you yourself once celebrated with great—”

“How dare you!” he thundered, eyes fired. “Do you think that I do not know what happens in my kingdom?”

“You fled Dumah with the dagger of Varus,” the queen said.

How much they’d learned of my mission I could only guess, but I was now wholly at their mercy.

“I did. And I have now come to you of my own free will.”

“Then you have come to your death willingly.”

“No, Father!” Phasa rushed to Aretas. “You must listen to me. Whatever you think you know, it is only half. If not for Maviah I would be dead. How can you have so little mercy on the one who is the savior of your own daughter?”

“What absurdity is this?” Shaquilath demanded. “Where is Herod’s guard?”

Phasa ignored the queen, pleading instead with her father.

“Did you hear me, Father?” She pointed to me, growing more bold. “If not for this woman who is like a sister to me, I would be dead. She and her slaves have saved my life.”

He was slow to respond, eyeing me with great suspicion. “Nashquya, my niece entrusted to your family, is dead,” he said. “In what manner has Rami angered the gods? He has betrayed me, and my blessing now remains only with the Thamud, who even now grace the courts of Petra. And yet here stands the daughter of Rami bearing the dagger of Varus, begging favor.”

The Thamud were now in Petra? An image of Kahil bin Saman throwing my son from the window flashed through my mind.

“Nasha was my dearest friend,” I said, unable to still the tremor in my voice. “I mourned her passing more than any. And I—”

“A slave cannot mourn the passing of Nasha like her own blood!” he thundered.

“And did I not also lose a father?” I said, knowing that it was too bold.

“Your father? Rami is in chains, begging for his death, a just punishment for the death of Nasha!”

“I am your daughter!” Phasa cried. “And Maviah has saved this daughter of yours from certain death. I beg you hear her.”

Shaquilath’s voice cut through the hall. “Where is Herod’s—”

“Herod’s guard is with him!” Phasa cried, spinning to the queen. “And with the woman he would take to be his wife.”

Her voice rang out to rob the room of breath.

“The pig took me as his wife only to satisfy you, Father, but you know this already.” Her jaw was taut as she leveled each word in accusation. “Now his longing has been satisfied with Herodias, the wife of his brother, Philip the tetrarch, and he conspired to have me die of illness, fearing that to divorce me would enrage you.”

“Impossible!” Aretas roared.

“Is this not in keeping with the ways of his father, Herod the butcher? He has cast me aside and I would surely be dead, but for Maviah. It was she who learned of this plot and demanded that I return to you with Judah and Saba to save me from death. She came even knowing that you would despise her. For this she should be celebrated, not accused of betrayal!”

The revelation had taken them all by storm, and neither Aretas nor his queen could immediately speak.

“You must hear her, for she is—”

“Divorce?” Where Aretas had been angry before, his face was now pale.

“How can we know this is true?” Shaquilath demanded. “She told you this?”

“You question my word?” Phasa demanded.

“I question her!” The queen pointed at me as she approached. “She was the one who told you that the king would take up with another woman and divorce you. How do you know this is true?”

“Because I know my husband,” Phasa cried. “I should have known many months ago, but my eyes were blinded by my own captivity. Herod would have me dead. He will take up with Herodias, you will see.”

Aretas seemed not to hear their exchange.

“They think I am too old to defend my own honor?” His hands were fists and he paced away, staring at the floor. “They have forgotten what we did to the Greeks when they tried to defy the Nabataeans? To the Romans when they sought to suppress our control?”

He spun back to us and thrust a finger in the air, face scarlet. “No man can defy the power of the Nabataeans and live! I will crush that insolent little bastard. I will crush his armies and scatter their bones. How dare he cast aside his covenant with me for his own lust!”

“We cannot know this to be true,” Shaquilath said. “Herod may be weak but he is not such a fool.”

“Do you know him?” Phasa demanded. “Have you bathed him and fed him too much wine?”

They were lost in passion and I knew that unless reason was brought to bear, the outcome might not favor me, so I stilled my heart and spoke in a calm voice.

“All will be known soon enough. If our words lie, then judge as you see fit. But I am sister to Phasa and have delivered her to safety at my own peril. For this I ask only that you hear what I have to say. There is a way to deal with Herod for his treachery.”

“How dare you tell the king how to deal in matters of state!” Shaquilath hissed.

Phasa glared. “Is a queen’s word so worthless, Mother?”

“She is no queen!”

“I am,” Phasa said. “And I say that she is.”

“Silence!” The king’s jowls shook. He caught his wife’s angry stare, hesitated for a moment, then regarded Phasa, speaking in an even tone. “Mind how you speak to your queen.”

Phasa thought better of pushing the matter.

“Yes, Father.” Then, to Shaquilath, “Forgive me.”

“If what you say is true,” Aretas said, “then I swear before Al-Uzza that all of my fury will rain down upon Herod and all of his armies.”

“If what she says is true,” Shaquilath said. “We will not take the word of a slave from Dumah.”

Aretas glanced at me. “No, we won’t.”

“Put her in chains until we have word.”

For the first time since our entering the courts, Judah’s passion took over and he stepped forward.

“I beg you, as Judah, mighty warrior of the Kalb who does not know the meaning of a deceitful tongue, what my queen speaks is true. I beg you have mercy and honor her as your guest.”

“She is your queen?” Shaquilath said. “And you, a Jew who knows only treachery. How dare you speak in my court!”

“Forgive me, I only—”

“Do not speak to my queen,” Aretas said. And then, to the guard behind us: “Put them all in chains.”

“Father—”

“Separate them,” Shaquilath said, turning back to the platform.

Aretas glanced at his daughter but did not defy his queen.

“Separate them and put them in chains.”