by Ted Dekker
Kahil studied him with a dark stare, then grunted and yanked his dagger from his belt. He crossed to the slumped form of Maliku’s father, jerked his head back, and slashed the old man’s throat.
Blood silently spilled down Rami’s bare chest.
Kahil shoved him to one side and strode toward the door.
“Never call me brother.”
Chapter Two
I PATIENTLY listened to our council of twelve, the only woman among sheikhs, as they argued as only Bedu men can—with great passion, as if each word was their last. They sipped tea and leaned against saddles and emphasized their words with dramatic gestures. I sat both with them and apart from them on a nearby camel hide, legs drawn to one side, leaning on one arm.
We were gathered under the spacious black tent of our eldest member, Fahak bin Haggag, in the Garden of Peace, the small, verdant oasis that sat a mere six hours south of Dumah, where my father had once ruled.
Those present in this tent were the most revered leaders from among the Bedu tribes who had survived the Thamud slaughter. For two years they had heeded my counsel and resisted Kahil bin Saman’s tyranny. But they bowed to no king, and though they followed me as a queen, I would never rule them. This was neither their way nor my aim.
They had gathered to me because they heard the tale of my victory over the traitor Maliku, my brother—a victory granted to me by the power of Yeshua.
They had followed me because I offered them Yeshua’s hope and power in the face of Kahil’s sword. Though the Thamud had orphaned hundreds of children and seized our every resource, I made them a promise: as people of Yeshua’s kingdom we would have nothing to fear. We would be restored.
But today the doubters raised their voices.
There were no lavish appointments in our camp. None among us could afford silk or drink from silver or sleep upon thick pillows. The sheikhs were all dressed in plain, well-worn robes, showing their status and tribes only by the colors in the agals wound around their headdresses. My own dress was the color of the sand, and I rarely pulled my blue shawl over my head save to protect my long dark hair from the wind and sun. My sandals were made of goat hide, bound by leather thongs around my ankles, and my wristbands from stained skins cut into thin strips and woven together with cords from the red reed.
Most everything else of value we had long ago traded for food and for she-camels, whose milk provided much of our sustenance.
The contrast between our meager Bedu means and the lavish courts of Herod and Aretas, where I had lived for many weeks, could not be overstated. Our camels, our tents, and the oasis with its spring and small spread of date palms and pomegranate—these are what allowed us Bedu, who could wring life from a rock, to survive in the middle of the forbidding sands that had defeated many an army from the north.
Fahak lifted his cup from the flat stone beside his saddle and took a noisy sip of the hot tea. His frame was thin and his hair clung to his head and chin as if it were pasted there by mud, waiting for a stiff breeze to blow it all away. Then he carefully set his cup back down, just managing to keep it from spilling, and cleared his throat.
“Do I not know the greatness of Maviah? Was I not the first to accept her among all sheikhs? Though Thamud, did I not decry the violent ways of my own tribe for her sake? Did I not single-handedly save her from the jaws of the mighty Nafud so that she might bring back the power of her new god, Yeshua, to join with our gods, Wadd and Isis and Shams and Dushares?”
Much of what he said distorted the facts, and no amount of explanation seemed to help Fahak understand the truth of what gave me strength. He would only listen to me with a blank stare, then dip his head in agreement and praise his god for bringing such a woman with her new god to help him overthrow the enemy.
“But Maviah does not carry a sword. To march upon Dumah is to march with the sword. And so, however grateful we are to Maviah, the time for men has now come.”
He let his words sink in.
“The sword is not the issue, Fahak,” the sheikh Niran said.
“Of course it is! Do you think Kahil would not slaughter eight thousand men who come to defy him without swords?”
“And do you think eight thousand armed men on haggard beasts can stand against Saman’s army of thirty thousand?”
“No man can defeat me!” Fahak cried. His cry faltered and ended with only a raspy breath, followed by several rattling hacks from his worn lungs.
“We must wait for more men to join our number,” Niran argued. “Another month.”
“We do not have the food to wait another month,” another sheikh said. Habib. “In two weeks the camels will begin to starve and we will need to slaughter them for food, thus compromising our mobility.”
“Then perhaps we march in two weeks, when we are at the end of our food but have more men,” Niran said.
“More men will only require more food,” Habib countered. “To go when we are weakest is not the Bedu way. Nor is it our way to confront the enemy without a sword.”
A fourth sheikh, Jashim, the youngest of the leaders, spoke evenly. “We must go in peace. There is no other way to restore Rami’s honor and liberate Judah, who is unjustly imprisoned.”
“We must go with the sword and demand restitution for the Thamud plunder!” Fahak snapped. “We are free to couch camel and clan where the sands offer grace. This is the right of all Bedu for as long as man has set foot on the earth. And yet Saman’s butcher son would slaughter us all. If not with the sword, then with starvation and poverty.”
“A ruler without subjects is no ruler,” Jashim said. “Our deaths are not in Saman’s interests. Who would remain to attend to the many spice caravans that pay his taxes? Or deliver the food and wares the city requires? Dumah is the jewel of the deep sands, but it cannot stand alone.”
“No? Except for your desire to disarm us you speak with a sane mind.” Fahak jabbed his forehead with a thin finger. “But Saman is mad. His son, Kahil, is worse. Are we to hope that the jinn who have eaten his brains will now spit those same brains back into his skull so that he might come to reason?”
The only member of our number who was not a sheikh, besides me, was Arim, servant of Fahak, who had helped save me from the deadly Nafud desert two years earlier. He had since sworn to protect me from any jackal who sniffed at my tent.
Seated behind the circle of elders, Arim raised his voice.
“Maviah wishes we march in three days’ time to rescue my blood brother, Judah, and it is my wish—”
“Silence, Arim!” Fahak snapped up a trembling, bony finger in warning. “Do you now speak for the sheikhs with your wishes?”
“I only say—”
“It is time for sheikhs to speak and for boys to be silent!”
“Yes, Fahak. Forgive me. And yet you challenge her wishes to—”
“Not another word!”
Arim bowed his head. “Forgive me, mighty Fahak, most wise one. I speak out of turn.”
“This is not news,” the old man said, then coughed again.
Under other circumstances I would have offered a glance of courage to Arim, whom I loved like a younger brother, though I knew he sought affection of a different kind from me. He was perhaps eighteen, long since a man.
And I would have smiled at Fahak’s antics, because, although he led the council, he did not seem to know the weakness of his aging bones.
Immediately the debate resumed, back and forth, around and around, bound by tradition and a pride that ran deeper than marrow. Should we go to Dumah in peace or with swords? Should we negotiate with Saman for restitution or seize it? Should we march in three days or in three weeks?
In my corner of the tent I held my tongue as they worked the fear out of their blood with words of bravado. Had I not known such anxiety many times? Did I not feel it even as I heard their doubts? Fahak was right: Saman’s son, Kahil, might well slaughter us without thought.
Kahil, the one who’d thrown my infant son to his death upon
the rocks.
Kahil, the one who’d once blinded me.
I closed my eyes and let my fear swell. I did not rest it. This would only fuel the offense. Accept. Turn the cheek.
Had not a storm once threatened to crush me on the Sea of Galilee? Had not I faced my own death in the arena at Petra? And yet I had followed the Way of Yeshua and emerged unharmed.
Still I felt fear, for now twenty thousand had put their trust in me. Kahil, who’d taken the life of my first son, would now surely threaten the life of my second, Talya. And of all the orphans gathered to safety here.
Judah’s life was also at stake. Judah, my warrior and my lover, fading in the dungeons of Dumah.
Judah, my lion. My heart ached for him.
Talya, my little lamb. Forgive me. I would die for him.
Saba, my tower, stand by me. Yet he was not here to calm me.
Yeshua, my master, speak to me.
Peace. Be still…
I took a deep breath. Stillness came to my mind and I lingered there, drawing strength.
“…Maviah, our queen.”
Arim had spoken. I opened my eyes and saw that he faced me, standing.
The council turned to me.
“Speak to us, Queen Maviah,” Arim said. This time Fahak made no attempt to silence him. My time had come.
I gathered my dress and slowly pushed myself to my feet. I let my gaze rest on their faces, then bowed my head in reverence to Fahak.
“You are most wise, my sheikh. I am honored to be the queen of such powerful men who have seen the Light of Blood in my eyes and followed a path of bravery rarely known, even among the Bedu, subjects of no kingdom but the kingdom that reigns in the heart. It was you who saved me from the desert.”
Fahak dipped his head. “Yes, it was I who saved you.”
“Indeed. It was you who believed in me.”
Another nod, but with some caution this time, because he’d often found himself cornered by my gentle words.
“The first to believe,” he said.
“You, Fahak, were most wise for having believed in my name.” My voice soothed like oil. “For I was the daughter of Rami, who was the greatest of all sheikhs among the Banu Kalb. And as the daughter of Kalb, I found the power of a new Father in the name of Yeshua, in whose name I believed. Is this not true?”
His response was slow. “It is.”
I paced to my left, arms loose by my side, looking through the open flap at a gathering of children fifty paces distant, knocking about a ball of dried dung with sticks.
Unless you become like children…
“Tell me, Fahak,” I said, turning back to him, “what does it mean to believe in the name of someone?”
He glanced at the others, because the answer was plain among all the people of the earth.
“To trust and so align with them,” he said. “Am I so old that I cannot understand what is known by all?”
“Your age only makes you wise, mighty sheikh. To believe in one’s name is not merely to acknowledge that they are who they say they are, or to know of their status. It is, as you say, to put your trust in the authority that comes with the name. And so to align yourself with them.”
“So are alliances made and bonds forged,” Fahak said.
“Indeed. And do you still put your faith in my name, Maviah, daughter of Yeshua?”
Again he hesitated, perhaps only now seeing where I was taking him.
“I do.” He lifted a finger. “But only so long as what you say follows my own proven understanding.”
“And yet I am here only because I surrendered my own understanding to Yeshua’s Father, who is also my own.”
“He is not my god.”
“And because I trusted Yeshua’s Father, though it was beyond any common sense, he gave me the sight and power to prevail in Petra. You see? Common sense is for the masses. Only the wisest depart from it.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. But rather than ask him for his submission—for this would be too much to ask of an old Bedu warrior such as Fahak—I turned to the others and made my case.
“You are right when you say that Kahil has lost his mind and would not hesitate to slaughter every man who marched on Dumah, whether or not we go with swords. And you are also right when you say that we did not come to die. So then, we cannot march with eight thousand men in three days’ time.”
They watched me, surely having expected other words.
“She speaks the truth,” Fahak said.
“Kahil would kill all of our men,” I said. “But Saman will not allow his son, however mad, to kill twenty thousand Bedu.”
“Thus he has not come against us,” Jashim said.
“Then we might, instead, go to him. All of us.”
Silence stretched long in the black tent.
Habib appeared confused. “You are suggesting that we take women and children as well?”
“We came together as one, did we not? In three days’ time we might go twenty thousand strong to Dumah, unified and without a single sword, so that all may see our intentions for peace, not war. We must restore Rami to his people. We must free Judah. And we must negotiate for honorable compensation for our losses. Saman and Kahil may have hearts of stone, but the Thamud people, even their warriors, are not beasts. They too have wives and children.”
“Among all Bedu it is forbidden to take the life of the desert’s offspring,” Jashim said, standing. “She speaks the truth.”
“We cannot take women and children to war!” Fahak cried.
“It is not war!” Jashim returned.
Fahak looked dumbfounded—what I suggested was unheard of. But then his face began to settle.
“You suggest we leave the Garden and march to Dumah as one?” Fahak said. “All of us.”
I dipped my head in respect. “Is this not wisdom, mighty sheikh? It was you who first put your trust in me.”
For a long time the old man stared at me. Would he dare openly put his confidence elsewhere, after publicly declaring he trusted in me?
He turned to the others, then lifted one hand as if to silence them, though there was no need.
“In my eyes, made wise with age, I have seen a way. Like an eagle high in the sky, peering beyond the tallest dune, I behold that we might march on Dumah in three days’ time. All as one. Without a sword.”
Silence.
I don’t remember who voiced the first objection, nor the impassioned exchanges that followed and would surely continue for hours.
I don’t remember, because in hearing my own mind spoken so clearly by Fahak, I knew the decision was already made.
The fear I had felt earlier returned with unexpected strength, like the scream of a demonic jinn in the middle of the night.
I was putting the lives of every man, woman, and child who’d followed me into the hands of the monster who’d killed my infant son.
Into Kahil’s hands.
And yet I had another plan.
Chapter Three
JUDAH BEN MALCHUS. It was his former name—he could remember that much, but darkness had swallowed the rest. Like a distant howl in the desert night, his old identity often haunted him, mocked him, then faded back into the void.
He was no longer son of Malchus of the Kokobanu tribe, those distant stargazers filled with wonder for the heavens and for the one who would, indeed had, come to save all of Israel.
He was now only son of bitterness, a man with no identity in which to place his hope or trust.
Judah lay unmoving in the pitch darkness next to a rough stone wall, only barely aware of the shackle around his ankle. The bars at the front of the dungeon were beyond his chain’s reach—a security measure put into place after he killed two guards when they entered to tend the head wound he’d received in Petra.
The floor was muddy except for the strip where Judah now lay. They dumped the food through the gate, just within reach if he pulled his chain to its end and stretched out on his knees. A wooden bucket co
llected his waste and was emptied only once each week.
But his misery came from the darkness. Nothing could torment any Bedu accustomed to sun as much as two years of perfect darkness. No torches lit the chamber, nor the passage beyond, except when they came with food.
In the beginning, he was confused by the nourishment they served him and the care they took when disease took root in his body. Only after many months did he understand their intent.
Kahil meant to keep Judah’s senses sharp and drive his mind into madness. Kahil inflicted no pain. No one discouraged Judah’s obsessive strengthening or spoke words of confrontation. Darkness and solitude and utter silence were Kahil’s tools of abuse. And these were unfamiliar enemies to Judah.
Realizing Kahil’s purpose, he spoke to himself often and filled his mind with graceful memories of the past, reliving each over and over.
The liberation near Mudah, on the southern Nafud, where, at barely sixteen, he’d single-handedly tracked twenty camels stolen from his tribe, cut down two Tayy warriors on the outskirts of their camp, and skillfully avoided pursuit in delivering the camels back to his tribe. The elders learned then that Judah was not a common man among stargazers.
The day Rami bin Malik had taken Judah into his tent as his second in all matters of war. They had slaughtered ten goats and two camels that night, singing his praise until the rising of the sun.
Fighting by Saba’s side in battle, knowing always that together they equaled twenty warriors. Were they not legend already?
Many such memories kept Judah occupied for weeks as he waited for deliverance, knowing that it would come in time. Saba was surely alive and free. Nothing could stop Saba.
The mighty sheikh, Rami, was also in captivity, but Judah had heard nothing of his fate. He served Rami still, but more, he served Maviah.
Maviah…
Nine of ten memories lingered on the woman he loved. Memories of her seated behind him after her camel had been swallowed by the storm in the Nafud. Her arms around his chest and her hot breath on his neck as he pointed out the stars that guided them by night.
