by H. B. Moore
By the time she helped Batal mount his horse, his leg had swollen. She climbed on behind him and swatted the horse forward. Nicaula wrapped her arms around Batal’s body, clinging to him as if her touch would expel the poison from his body. She urged the horse faster and faster, and the hot wind dried the tears on her face.
Halfway home, Batal’s body became slack. “Batal,” Nicaula cried out, “stay with me. Do not leave me!” Her tears came faster than the wind could dry them now.
But Batal did not answer, his silence carving a hole in Nicaula’s heart. His arms hung limply at his sides, and it took all her strength to prevent him from sliding off. The muscles in her shoulders and arms burned as she tried to keep him on the horse. “The healer can assist you,” she called out over the wind, her voice hoarse and desperate. “You just need to hold on, my love.”
As they neared the palace, Nicaula started screaming for help. Servants ran into the courtyard, and Nicaula continued to shout orders even after they had pulled Batal off the horse and carried him inside. She followed, not able to look away from Batal’s face, and his glassy eyes that stared at nothing.
“Nabil!” she shouted. “Fetch Nabil!” She did not know how long she called for Nabil until he appeared. It was only then, with the healer present, that Nicaula’s strength gave out. She sank to the floor next to the bed, her hands clutching at Batal’s limp arm.
Nabil bent over Batal’s leg and made a second incision.
This time, Batal did not acknowledge the pain. Nicaula watched the scarlet blood seep from her beloved’s body and soak the bed beneath. She turned to look at Batal’s face. His eyes had closed, and for a moment it was as if he were merely sleeping. Nicaula pulled herself up and sat next to him, touching his face. The heat radiating from his skin was not of a man riding through a hot desert, but of a man who had the fever.
One of the servants hovered with wet cloths, and Nicaula took them and placed them on Batal’s neck, his forehead. He did not move, did not even flinch. It was as if she were not there.
“Batal,” Nicaula said. “Do not leave me.” Her throat swelled as she gazed at him, and her heart felt as if it had burst into a thousand tears. “O God of Israel,” Nicaula cried out. “Heal him! Preserve this man!”
She took a shaky breath, and turned to the healer. “Keep bleeding him. Get rid of all of the poison. I command you to heal him!” She took Batal’s hands and drew them to her breast. Maybe her heartbeat would somehow encourage him to fight. She closed her eyes and prayed as the healer made incisions into Batal’s flesh and saturated cloth after cloth with blood. Batal’s leg was now severely swollen, and Nabil continued to find places to let blood. With each change of cloth, Batal’s breath grew fainter.
Nicaula barely heard the healer when he said, “I have done all that I can.”
She looked at him through bleary eyes. His expression told her that he held no hope for Batal. She wanted to rage against it, but the growing stillness of Batal’s body told her the truth. “You may leave now,” Nicaula said, her voice cracking in two.
After Nabil left her chambers, she climbed onto the bed next to Batal. She lay parallel to him, not touching his swollen leg, but lying close enough that she could hear his every breath. New tears slipped along her face, soaking into her hair.
“Batal,” she said. “My love. I am so sorry.” She moved her hand over his barely moving chest. The fever had gone, only to be replaced by cooler skin. Every so often his eyelids fluttered but never fully opened. She watched him as long as she was able, until her eyes closed from exhaustion.
“Nicaula.” The sound whispered through her mind. It came a second time. Then a third.
She didn’t know if she was dreaming when she opened her eyes and gazed into her beloved’s face. His eyes had opened, focused on her, and his face was radiant.
“I wanted to see you one more time,” Batal said, his lips moving.
Was she dreaming? She rose up on an elbow and gazed at her husband. “Stay with me,” Nicaula said, stroking his cheek. “You will be healed soon, and then we will live together as husband and wife at last.”
He blinked his dark, beautiful eyes. “Nicaula.” Her name was a caress. “It is my time to depart this life.” He moved his hand slowly until it touched hers.
Nicaula looked down at their clasped hands. His skin was warm and rough, yet smooth and strong.
“Do not be angry with Yahweh.” Batal’s whisper brushed her face like a kiss. “Remember Him. Worship Him.” His breathing turned ragged, and Nicaula knew this was no dream. Batal was leaving her. He was saying good-bye.
“No!” She released his hand and took his face in her hands. “Don’t leave me now.” Her body contorted with sobs, and when she stopped she realized he hadn’t breathed for a moment.
“Batal!” Nicaula cried out.
It was as if she startled the breath right into him.
He inhaled. “I want our story to be written on the walls of my tomb.” His voice was so faint that she could barely make out the words. He closed his eyes, his thick lashes resting against his beautiful cheeks. “I will always love you.” His breathing slowed. “Always.”
Then he was still.
“Batal!” she screamed. She placed her hands against his chest, searching for his heartbeat. His body was warm, yet there was no pulsing. “Open your eyes, my love.” She ran her fingers along his face. “Please, Batal. Please.” Laying her head against his chest, she held her own breath, waiting for his body to move again.
It did not.
She wrapped her arms about his torso, burying her face against his neck, as sobs shook her body. “O God of Israel, give him back to me!”
She prayed, pled, and prayed again. But the moments passed, quiet as the death that permeated the room. Batal hadn’t moved, hadn’t breathed. Finally, Nicaula raised her head and looked at Batal.
He was perfect, even in death.
She rose from the bed, her limbs heavy and stiff. She took a basin of scented water and gently cleaned the dust and perspiration from her husband’s body. After she washed the dried blood from his leg, she set the basin on the floor.
She climbed onto the bed with him again and gently kissed him on the cheek. “This is for our child who will never be.”
She hovered over him, examining every feature: his eyelids, his lashes, his nose, his cheeks, his lips that had kissed her with so much love and passion just hours before. Disbelief pounded through her chest. She kissed his other cheek. “And for the years we will not share.” She moved her lips to his forehead as a sob caught in her throat. “And for making you wait so long.” Tears burned her eyes and dripped onto his face. She placed her hands on either side of his face. “With this kiss, you are my husband forever.” She kissed him on the mouth, his lips salty from her own tears.
When he didn’t respond, she collapsed against Batal and clung to his clothing, sobbing, wishing she were dead instead of him. “O God, why did you take my beloved?” The pain coursed through her, faster than a snake’s venom, as she clung to him, praying, cursing, and grieving until the first light touched the horizon.
Only when his body had grown rigid and the coldness had set in did Nicaula pull away. She moved to the door and summoned Nabil. He entered quietly and prepared the body for burial while Nicaula huddled in the corner of the room.
Before the sun crested the dunes, Batal was carried to his tomb below the temple of Yahweh. The procession was small—David, Queen Nicaula, Nabil, and four guards to carry the shrouded body.
While the rest of the city slept, Batal’s body was lowered into the cavern. The guards descended by rope and placed him in the sarcophagus. Nicaula knelt at the opening when the task was complete and bowed her head.
“Farewell, Batal,” she whispered. “My husband and my only love. Thank you for loving me as a man loves a woman. Please wait for me. Wait
for the queen of the South.”
In the late morning, Nicaula announced Batal’s death to her people. A body made of wood, wrapped in linen, was brought forward, and she led the procession to the tomb prepared on the other side of the city. No one would ever find the true burial place of her beloved and desecrate his body.
That evening, Nicaula requested little David to visit her. When he arrived in her private chambers, she tried to put him at ease. “Come here, child.”
The young Bedu boy stepped forward.
“Have you had a chance to see the city of Ubar?”
The boy nodded, and Nicaula smiled gently. “And what did you think of it, son?”
“Very . . . beautiful.”
“It is very beautiful. And one day, it will all be yours.”
David’s large black eyes gazed at her.
Nicaula removed a metal box from the folds of her garment. She lifted the lid and took out the heavy gold ring from inside. “Tomorrow I will declare you my son, my heir to the throne.” She waved her hand around the room. “Everything you see will be yours someday.” Nicaula crossed to him and knelt by his side. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“If I am your son . . . then . . .” His voice faltered.
“Then I will be your new mother,” Nicaula finished. She drew the small boy into her arms. “In return for all the riches and power a boy could dream of, I ask only one thing in exchange.” She pulled away and looked firmly into the boy’s eyes.
He set his jaw straight and blinked back his tears.
“You must write my true story upon my tomb walls, then never tell a soul where I am buried.” She smiled. “When you’re grown, you will return to the land of your birth and give this ring to a man named Tambariah. Tell him I am sorry about Azhara.”
The boy nodded.
“Good son,” Nicaula whispered as she drew him into her arms again.
CHAPTER
54
Salalah, Oman
Jade sat in the Salalah airport, the chair hard beneath her. She was uncomfortable—yes, tired, very, but her heart ached. She had just finished reading David Levy’s confession printed in the newspaper—English edition. Next to it was the completed article Professor Lyon had written, which had apparently been found in his e-mail draft folder. In addition to the notes that Omar and Mia had uncovered, Lyon had accused the head of AWP—now confirmed as the deceased Rabbel Al Omda, and Abdallah Saleh al-Qadi, ex-director of GOAMM, as those illegally pursuing the search for the queen’s tomb. But Lyon had failed to realize his real enemy: the senior intelligence officer of the Northern Israeli Command, David Levy—the one who admitted to sending an envelope laced with cyanide to both Lyon and the patriarch, intercepting the article submitted to Saudi Aramco, and concocting a long trail of cover-ups, all in order to protect his connection to the most corrupt pirate group in the world: AWP.
The ring and necklace were currently being studied by Dr. Stein and his colleagues, Jade read. The tomb had turned into a full-blown excavation site, and predictions estimated that it would take twelve to eighteen months before everything was excavated and identified. She scrolled through her recent notes on her phone about the queen’s burial chamber. The story of the queen’s life on the tomb walls had been only a brief outline of what must have happened to her.
Jade tried to imagine the trials and tragedies the woman had faced. She was buried beneath the tomb of Batal—a man whom she had obviously loved. Jade lifted her gaze to see Lucas crossing to her, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a freshly squeezed glass of juice in the other.
A twinge of sadness crept into her heart. He’d come to see her off. She was headed back to the States, and he would remain in Oman trying to tie all the new artifacts together.
“Here you are,” Lucas said, handing over the juice and settling next to her. “They should be calling your flight soon.”
Jade nodded, sipping the fresh juice and making a mental note to find the nearest health-food café once she returned home. She didn’t think she could drink processed stuff after this.
“Well, we’ve accomplished a lot, haven’t we?” Lucas said.
“And Lyon’s killer—David Levy—is behind bars.” Jade looked out the airport windows at the drizzly rain that had crept in over the past hour. The summer monsoon was in full swing.
“One man’s evil heart affects many.”
She turned. “You’re sounding poetic, Luc. Are you sure you don’t believe in the Bible?”
He chuckled and draped his arm around the back of her chair, meeting her gaze. “Do you honestly think I would be in this line of work if I didn’t?”
She smiled. Butterflies invaded her stomach when he smiled back. She would miss those amber eyes. One part of her wished he’d invite her to stay. She could make herself useful during the day, then dream about him at night. She could get used to this lifestyle—traveling in the desert, excavating in the hot sun, spending the evenings talking about old legends and new possibilities. All she’d need was a shower every so often.
The announcement came over the intercom, first in Arabic, then in accented English. Boarding had started. It was hard to believe she was really leaving. Finding the tomb had been amazing, but looking back on the events as a whole made Jade realize that she’d never enjoyed anything more. She finished the last of her juice and rose to her feet. Lucas stood too. He took her cup from her and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “Until next time, mademoiselle.”
You don’t even know how much I hope to see you again. Jade pulled away, trying to memorize the electricity of his touch. It reminded her of the lure of the desert—the brilliance of the changing colors, the extreme temperatures, and the cacophony of languages and cultures. “Until next time, then.” She hesitated, wanting to hug him. But he held his coffee and her empty juice cup, and she didn’t want to make it awkward—especially in the middle of an airport where the local men and women didn’t show public affection.
She turned and walked to the boarding gate. She handed over her boarding pass, and with a final glance behind, she saw Lucas watching her.
She waved, and he lifted his cup of coffee, a half smile on his face.
Au revoir.
CHAPTER
55
Shisur, Oman
Omar slammed the passenger door shut, then leaned through the window, looking at Alem, who sat in the truck, a crooked grin on his face.
“Thank you for everything, my friend,” Alem said.
Omar gripped Alem’s hand. “Thank you. Without your grandmother’s poem, we may never have found the queen’s burial chamber.”
Alem tapped his forehead. “I’m glad it was still up here.”
Omar laughed. “Me too.” He sobered for a moment, thinking of what Alem had been through. Alem’s skin was nearly healed, although his face was still lined with thick red scars. “I’ll never forget this.”
Alem nodded, a far-off look in his gaze. “Each time I look into a mirror, I’ll remember Arabia.”
“Think of the queen, my friend,” Omar said. “Think of your part in finding her. Your scars are evidence of that sacrifice.” He blinked against the sudden stinging in his eyes. Allergy season must be coming early to the desert. He placed a hand on Alem’s shoulder. “I’ll do all I can to see that everyone associated with Rabbel is behind bars.”
“Thank you.”
“Ready?” Mia spoke behind Omar.
He turned. Mia was personally escorting Alem to Ethiopia. They didn’t want to take any chances with Alem’s passage back home since Ismail was still at large.
“Do you need me to come with you?” Omar asked.
“No. It’s all routine.”
He hated to see her leave. “And your father? Is he leaving too?”
“I think he’ll stick around for another day or two, just to see how things unfold with the ex
cavation.”
Omar searched Mia’s eyes. When would he see her again? She’d probably be swept into another undercover assignment before he could return to Jerusalem.
“Hey, I have a question for you.” Mia led Omar a few paces away from the truck. “Alem told me he found a Coptic cross with your possessions. Was it yours?”
“It was a gift from an elderly neighbor when I was a child. I used to walk her dog each day, and she left it to me in her will. I guess I thought it was good luck, so I kept it.”
Mia looked skeptical. “Is that all?”
“Yes, and I wish I had it back.”
A slight smile turned up the corners of Mia’s mouth. “I might be able to get another one for you.”
Omar eyed her for a moment. “Just don’t tell my mother that I carry around a cross. She’d kill me.”
Mia drew an imaginary zipper across her lips, then asked, “So what are your plans?”
“I’m going to stick around here for a few days. Lucas might need some help with translating that Aramaic.” Omar winked.
She laughed. “I’m sure he will.”
“If nothing else, it will give me time to . . . uh, think about what I want to do next.”
She gave him a knowing smile. “Levy’s job is available.”
“I already tried that route, and look what happened.”
Mia folded her arms and tilted her head. “Enlighten me.”
“Well, I interviewed for the job, and they hated me so much that they found the worst possible person to hire.” He leaned toward her. “That person came between me and the woman I love more than anything in the world. Then the guy killed a renowned historian, tried to assassinate a patriarch, twice, was thrown into jail, and . . . got fired.” He stared at Mia, enjoying her flushed cheeks as the wind tugged at her hair. Omar tucked a lock of curls behind her ear. “And I thought I had bad luck.”
