The Realms of God--A Novel of the Roman Empire (The Shards of Heaven, Book 3)

by Michael Livingston

  Even in a place like Petra, where women could own property in their own names, shooting a bow was hardly the work of a lady. So in the nearly ten years since she’d begun practicing she’d received no small share of odd looks from the Nabataeans as she had trundled off with her bow and arrows to find some place to teach herself how to use the weapon.

  This place had quickly become her favorite.

  Down at the other end of the vines was a sack of dried husks, leaned up against the ever-present red rocks as if it were sleeping.

  Miriam patiently took aim, ignoring the strand of her own dark brown hair that danced across her vision. She stared at the target, eyeing the extended point until it was fixed upon it. Then, letting out her breath, she loosed the string.

  The bow snapped forward, the string snatched the shaft, and the arrow shot forward, straight and steady. In a heartbeat it had buried itself in the sack with a coughing thud.

  Miriam lowered the bow and shook her head as she walked between the vines. Even at a distance she could see that it had impacted several inches away from the last one, which was a finger length above the one before that. Her shots were hitting the target, certainly, but no matter how much she practiced they were still irregularly grouped.

  When she reached the sack she stared at it for a moment. It was exactly as she’d thought, and it was frustrating.

  Miriam snatched the arrow out of the sack, turned on her heels, and began marching back to her measured spot at the other end of the rows.

  She was halfway there when, looking up, she saw the Roman.

  Many people came to Petra, of course, from many nations of the world. Nabataea was a kingdom built on the trading caravans whose goods were brought from one side of the mountains to the other.

  But it was no Roman merchant she saw. It was a Roman soldier, squatting at the edge of the terrace above, his own bow strapped across his back. He was a young man, she could see, probably only a few years older than herself. He was handsome, and it took all the willpower she had not to flip her bow up and try to shoot him through.

  Rome was danger. Rome wanted the Ark.

  “Your elbow is rotating,” the soldier said.

  Pretending she’d just noticed him, Miriam raised her hand over her brow as if to further her sight. As she did so, she let her fingers brush past her breast, reassuring herself that her mother’s necklace—with its symbol of the Shard—was hidden. “My what?”

  “Your elbow,” he said. He smiled and placed his hand on the edge of the terrace’s stone retaining wall in order to vault himself down to her level. Still a row away from her, he darted his head from side to side as he tried to talk through the vines between them. “It’s rotating. You can’t let it do that. You’ll never get good groupings that way.”

  While he was distracted with trying to find a way through the vines, Miriam quickly glanced around her. There was no one else in the wadi. No new smoke in the air. She tried to listen for screams, but all she could hear was the falling water in the canyon.

  Roman soldiers passed through Petra on occasion, but Pullo and Vorenus usually knew in advance. Knowing ahead of time gave them the opportunity to have two of their triumvirate watching the tomb where the Ark lay hidden. How had they not known Roman soldiers were coming? And were they here for the Ark?

  Smiling shyly as she approached her shooting point, she asked him when he arrived.

  “Only just,” the young man said, poking his head between vines a few yards away. He began to contort his body through the gap he’d found. “Arrived with the legion.”

  Legion. Miriam’s stomach knotted in sudden panic, and she instinctively gripped the bow in her hand harder. “Trading?”

  With a grunt, the young man pulled himself through and stood before her. His grin, she could now see, was lopsided. “Oh no, my lady,” he said. “Just delivering a message, I think. At least that’s all I know of it.”

  Miriam wrinkled her face in what she hoped would look like innocent confusion. “A legion for a message? Is that really necessary?”

  The Roman shook his head and looked up toward a sky that was drifting toward evening. She’d been wrong about his age, she decided. He might even be younger than she was. “Depends on who is sending the message,” he said. His gaze fell back down to meet hers, and it looked like he might blush. “Anyway, you’re rotating your elbow.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” she said.

  The legionnaire held out his arm with his bow in his grip. “See how my elbow is to the side? That’s how you want it. Your elbow is rotating to point more toward the ground.”

  Miriam lifted her own bow and tried to mirror the position. It was definitely different than she’d done it. She frowned.

  “I know,” he said. “It might feel strange at first, but you’ll get better groupings. Believe me, that’s how you want it.” He set his bow down and walked over to her. “May I show you?”

  Miriam nodded, and he stepped around to stand behind her. Then he laid his right hand on hers and pushed her arm down, lowering the bow to her side while keeping her elbow pointed out. Next, he directed her to lift it back up again.

  “Perfect,” he said, his breath close to her neck. “Hold the bow correctly at your side and then just lift it up into position. You’ve been rotating your elbow down when you’ve pulled the bow up. Don’t ever do that.” He abruptly let go of her and stepped away again. “The muscles will get stronger, and soon it’ll feel natural. It even helps you to lift and draw at the same time, which means faster shots, too.” He pulled an arrow from his own gathering and held it out to her. “Here. Try it.”

  Miriam took the offering and lowered the bow. Nocking the arrow to the string, she took a deep breath to clear her head and then lifted and drew the bow, being careful not to rotate her elbow. She lined up the shot and loosed it an instant later.

  The arrow tore through the sack, almost directly on top of the hole from the last shot.

  The Roman clapped his hands. “Perfect! Soon you’ll be better than I am.”

  Miriam carefully lowered the bow again. “I can only hope. Thank you.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Archers have to stick together. I had to learn the same things once, when I was first given my bow, too. It’s interesting, though, that I’ve never seen a girl shooting the bow. Do all Nabataean girls do this? I’ve heard you have more rights than you would where I come from. Do they make you fight, as well?”

  Miriam felt herself instinctively bristle at the notion that she was Nabataean—her father, Caesarion, was a pharaoh of Egypt and by all rights ought to have ruled Rome—but she swallowed such prideful thoughts. She was no princess. The necklace that her mother had passed on to her, the talisman that was all she had left of her identity, meant that she was a keeper of the Ark. And that, as Pullo and Vorenus had told her, meant that Rome was her enemy. “No,” she said. “I just like shooting the bow. I like knowing I can hold my own if I ever need to do so.”

  The soldier looked at her approvingly. “I like that. It’s a good thing.” He glanced up again at the sky, which was noticeably darker than it had been. “I should probably go. I was just told to be sure this area was secure.”

  Miriam nodded down to where the cart path through the terraced vineyards in the narrow, steep-sided wadi ended at the cliff. “This as far as anyone goes,” she said.

  The young man pointed beyond the plunging drop-off, to where a thin sliver of trail, just wide enough for a man, continued along the edge of the mountainside. “And where does that go?”

  “Around the mountain. It eventually gets to Bayda, but no one comes to the city up that way. They take the main road.”

  “Good to know,” he said. “Well, good luck with your practice.” He turned and started walking toward the cart path.

  “What about your arrow?” Miriam called after him.

  He stopped and turned, his lopsided smile broad. “It’s not mine. It belongs to Rome. You can keep it. And
if you need more while we’re here, just come to the camp and find me, Abdes Pantera. Believe me, we have plenty.”

  Miriam wanted to reject his kindness, as the notion of being grateful to a Roman for anything made her ill. But knowing that it would save her the expense of buying at least one more shaft, she managed to smile. “Thank you,” she said.

  He waved, and then he was treading up the path toward Petra.

  Alone again, Miriam clutched for a moment at the talisman around her neck and allowed herself several deep breaths as she collected her thoughts. A Roman legion had come, bearing a message. That meant they would surely be gathering with the Nabataean king, probably with the high priest in the temple of Dushara. Pullo had been watching the Ark, so Vorenus would probably have gone to the temple to hear what was happening and determine what it might mean for them.

  So that’s where she would go, she decided. To the temple, to find Vorenus. He’d know what they should do.

  Shaking her head free of the image of Pantera’s lopsided grin, she ran to the sack and retrieved his arrow, adding it to her own.

  Then she turned and ran up the path as fast as she could manage.

  And as she did so, she was careful to hold her bow just as the Roman had showed her: elbow out, ready to lift and pull.

  * * *

  Petra was the only city Miriam had ever known, but she still knew enough to marvel at its existence. The city that spread out before her as she left the west wadi was built on a relatively flat plain, virtually ringed by high, rugged mountains. The main road ran north and south through the city: south to the town of Sabra, which was closer to the lower deserts and the western caravan roads that led to the ports on the Red Sea; and north to the ancient King’s Highway, which ran east of the mountains from those same ports all the way to the prosperous city of Damascus. Beyond those two roads, the only other way into the city of Petra was a narrow path through a chasm called the Siq, which cut like a knife through the heart of the mountains east of the city. Where the mountains failed in their natural defenses north and south, the Nabataeans had built stone walls between them, but there was no need for a wall across the Siq: few knew of its existence, and in places it was so narrow that two men—or one, if he was the size of her Pullo—could defend it. The path through the Siq became a colonnaded thoroughfare through the city, passing east–west to form a crossroads with the main north–south road. Passing that, it became a track leading down into the west wadi, with its farming terraces built around a little stream that some said sprang from the rock when Moses struck it with his staff.

  Miriam knew that the staff he’d held had been the Trident of Poseidon, the Shard that controlled water. So at least that part of the legend of her mother’s people made sense.

  Exiting the wadi, she saw the milling crowds gathered around the square in front of the temple of Dushara, which dominated the center of the city of Petra as surely as the surrounding mountains dominated the whole of the city itself. There was symbolism in this, as there was in so many things: Dushara was the god of the mountains.

  Roman legionnaires were scattered among the people, but despite their presence the crowds seemed calm. Pantera, it seemed, had been telling the truth. The Romans had come to deliver a message, not to attack the city, and therefore surely not to pursue the Ark. Its presence here, she was certain, was still a secret.

  Since Aretas had taken over as king, Vorenus had been acting as a kind of foreign advisor to the royal council. It allowed him to be where he could see what was happening and hear what was being said. King Aretas had offered him official status for his services, but Vorenus had declined, citing his age. Miriam knew the truth: he refused to be in a position where he’d be unable to rush toward the tomb where the Ark lay hidden. So Vorenus had remained on the periphery of the royal council—which meant that Miriam was likely going to find him among the bustling crowds.

  She dove into the roiling mass of people, doing her best to seek one of the higher platforms near the western edge of the square. It seemed as if the whole town had shown up, and Miriam quickly despaired of finding Vorenus among them. Passing faces that she knew, she nodded and smiled at them, but she didn’t slow down to talk until a familiar hand reached out to her from the bustling crowd of people vying to see what was happening. It was, Miriam saw as she turned, Dorothea, the old woman who sold flowers in the market.

  “Child,” Dorothea said, looking at the bow that Miriam was carrying, “whatever were you doing?”

  Miriam smiled, feigning innocence. “Checking the vines down in the wadi for weeds.”

  “Weeds, is it?” Dorothea winked conspiratorially. “Monstrous ones, apparently. I suspect they’ll be afraid to grow for many weeks, though.”

  Miriam shifted her grip on the bow. For a moment she thought about telling the old woman about the Roman archer—for some reason she suddenly had the urge to tell somebody about him—but she knew she shouldn’t dare tell Dorothea. If there was one thing everyone knew about the flower peddler it was that she traded in rumor more often than she traded her flowers. Dorothea had a keen ear and a ready tongue for gossip. She was surely the last person to tell about Abdes Pantera. “Well,” Miriam said, “I certainly tried.”

  “I hope you did well,” Dorothea said. She stretched her back painfully. “The gods know I need the wine.” She looked around at the tightly packed square and let out a long breath. “But for now I think my bed will do.”

  Still clutching Miriam’s arm, the old woman tiredly took a few steps toward the more empty streets away from the crowd.

  “Where’s your walking stick?” The flower peddler didn’t really need one—she’d walked here to the square without one, after all—but she seemed to enjoy the attention of having one.

  Dorothea frowned. “Was so excited to hear the news of the legion I left it in my stall. I’ll get it in the morning. Do you think you could help me along toward the road, dear?”

  “I was trying to find my uncle, Vorenus.” Pullo and Vorenus insisted that she call them uncles when people were around. The fact was that while neither man was her father, they’d been the only parents she’d ever known, and they’d done their best to raise her as well as two weathered warriors could manage. She’d never say it to them, but she thought of them as her two fathers, and she loved them as only a daughter could.

  Dorothea’s face brightened. “Then we’ll go that way together, child. I saw him walking toward the Siq.”

  Miriam nodded and took the old woman’s arm to support her as she walked. It would take her longer to walk with Dorothea, but she didn’t really mind. While many of the boys and girls her age didn’t like the flower seller—perhaps due to her meddling inquiries about their lives—Miriam found her to be kind and gentle. Even Dorothea’s rather unsubtle nudging that Miriam should give consideration to the romantic intentions of her grandson were well-meaning in their way—though Miriam had no interest at all in the boy.

  “Exciting to have the Romans here,” Dorothea said as she walked.

  Miriam once more thought of the Roman archer Abdes Pantera, and she looked around for a moment in the strange hope that she would see him. “I guess so,” she said.

  “Of course it is! They’re powerful and rich and well traveled.”

  And a threat to the Ark, Miriam wanted to add. Instead she just nodded.

  “They’ll have stories, I’m sure. Maybe buy some flowers.” The old woman’s fingers squeezed on her arm. “Maybe find you a pleasant Roman boy.”

  Before she could think to stop herself, Miriam loudly and suddenly denied any interest in such a thing. Even as the words of denial burst forth, she was realizing her protest was too loud, too soon.

  Dorothea immediately beamed. “Oh? No interest at all?”

  Miriam’s heart sank, and she was certain she was blushing. But as she opened her mouth to try a more convincing denial, she saw a familiar gray-haired man making his way alone through the edge of the gathered throng, headed west towa
rd the colonnaded street that led to the Siq. “There’s my uncle,” she said. “He’s surely worried about me.”

  Dorothea frowned, looking back and forth between them, then sighed with a smile. “You should probably go, then. But I’ll hear more about the Roman on your mind!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Miriam said in her calmest manner. “But I’m sure you’ll know anything there is to know.”

  “I always do, child. Off with you now.”

  Miriam smiled, patted the old woman’s arm once more, then hurried off.

  “Uncle Vorenus,” she said when she finally caught up to him.

  Vorenus turned to look over at her, his stride slowing ever so slightly as she kept pace beside him. “Good to see you, little one,” he said.

  Miriam smiled at the epithet, though as she neared twenty years of age she was hardly a little girl anymore. “You, too.”

  “Out practicing?”

  Miriam thought about whether to tell him about the Roman archer, but she decided it was of little importance right now. “I was,” she finally said. “Down in the wadi.”

  Vorenus nodded sagely and turned up the wide paved road between columns adorned with oil lamps that were beginning to glow as the setting sun painted the sky in swaths of deep red and orange.

  They walked in relative silence, side by side, until they were passing the first of the markets on their right. Shopkeepers were gathering their wares and closing their stalls, and there were far fewer people upon the road. Miriam looked around to be sure no one was close enough to listen before she spoke. “Do we need to worry about anything?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so. Not unless they begin tearing through the tombs for fun.” His tone made it clear that while Vorenus did not think it likely, he could easily imagine his former countrymen doing just that, impious as it was.