CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
IT TOOK our caravan of twenty camels four days with a guard of fifty to reach the Nabataean border, and another three days with twenty of Aretas’s best warriors to reach Petra once again. How Aretas knew to have the warriors ready at the border didn’t matter so much to me. Nor did it matter why Petra was prepared for our arrival—not just the rulers, but the entire city, as if Herod himself were making a grand entry.
My mind was preoccupied with other thoughts. Thoughts of Yeshua. Thoughts of Stephen and Nicodemus. Thoughts of what the master’s way truly was, so far from Palestine.
And thoughts of why the clarity of my experience with him was so quickly fading, with each mile and each day, it seemed. So I clung to my thoughts, determined not to let his power slip away.
I knew little of Yeshua’s full teaching, for I had spent only a few days with him. I had learned much from Stephen, but Stephen was still learning himself.
And yet all that I had seen and heard was so very simple that even a child might understand it, I thought. So simple that it rattled the mind, for Yeshua’s way was wholly contrary to the ways of the world, in particular the laws of religion and the kingdoms on earth.
Religion offered reward and punishment through laws of eating and drinking and daily activities. Failing these laws plunged one into shame and guilt. But Yeshua seemed to ignore such laws and spoke of love and of something far more offensive to the religious mind.
Faith. A child’s faith. When the storm came, to trust in Yeshua who was one with the Father, even as a young child might trust a perfectly loving father. This was what it meant to believe.
Did I trust, then? This was the question that haunted me those many hours upon the she-camel as it plodded over the terrain.
Did I trust the Father who, according to Yeshua, would give to me more than any earthly father might give to his child?
I heard his words still: If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, “Move from here to there,” and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.
Did I trust?
And more: If anyone steadfastly believes in me, he will himself be able to do the things that I do; and he will do even greater things than these.
Did I trust? Did I have faith? Did I believe in this way?
But I now had at my disposal a way to know if I trusted. By only listening to my own heart, I would know if it placed its faith in the storm or in Yeshua, who was the way.
If I feared the storm, my faith was in its power.
If I feared for my body, my faith was in that body, what I would eat or drink, how it might survive and be satisfied.
If I feared for Judah’s life, I put my faith in death and in him.
If I feared Aretas, I put my faith in his ability to hurt me, like any storm.
If I feared my own misunderstanding, I put my faith in my own ability to know the mystery beyond me.
This was the way of the world, protected by position and sword and gold and knowledge. Yeshua’s way was to protect nothing and let go of all grievance, as Stephen had said.
His way was faith, dismissing the Gnostics’ expectation that knowledge would save. His way was to be the kingdom among those who suffered on earth.
His way was to turn the other cheek when the evil one came. His way was to forgive seventy times seven. His way was to let go of the belief that the storm threatened, and to offer it peace through a child’s faith.
His way was to offer love rather than offense at every turn, for offense only empowered the storm.
You of little faith.
Was I one of little faith? What kind of power might be seen among those who truly followed Yeshua’s way and trusted him as that way? This was now my path, for nothing could compare to what I had seen.
According to Nicodemus, letting go of belief in the world’s way was like being born once more with the simple trust of a new child. And now I understood why: the old heart could see only offense and fear when the sword was raised against it or when unfair treatment stormed the gates of one’s mind and body.
But the newborn mind saw in spirit, having not yet learned offense. It then could return love instead of fear. Why would it fear a storm if it drew no offense from that storm?
What then were my storms to fear?
Aretas. Rami. The Thamud. The loss of Judah. My own failure, should I waver.
You of little faith.
“Father…” I whispered under my breath. “Give me Yeshua’s eyes to know you and follow his way. Give me your hand on this earth, to be your daughter and show your power.” Then I whispered that word again, lost in its wonder.
“Father…”
The word sounded foreign to me. And yet my fingers tingled with the raw power I felt in uttering such an intimate understanding of God, for he ruled the realm within me, as Yeshua had said so many times.
As we approached Petra this is how I understood Yeshua’s way, knowing that I had only seen the half of it, as he himself had said. But the half he’d shown me was true.
Our column of twenty camels, each heavily burdened with five talents of gold, was not the largest to enter Petra. A caravan of over three hundred camels came from the south that same hour, bearing spices. But so much gold had not been brought to Petra that year, nor the one before, I was told by the guard.
Among the Nabataeans, wealth and power were displayed for all to see. Nothing mattered to Aretas as much as his reputation, for this kept his enemies far away.
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?”
“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.”
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.