A.D. 30

by Ted Dekker

  I shifted him to my left, pulled aside my robe, and let him suckle as I lifted my eyes.

  As a slave groomed for high service in a Roman house I had been educated, mostly in the ways of language, because the Romans had an appetite for distant lands. By the time I had my first blood, I could speak Arabic, the language of the deep desert; Aramaic, the trade language of Nabataeans and the common language in Palestine; Latin, the language of the Romans; and Greek, commonly spoken in Egypt.

  And yet these languages were bitter herbs on my tongue, for even my education displeased my father.

  I scanned the horizon. Only three days ago the barren dunes just beyond the oasis had been covered in black tents. The Dumah fair had drawn many thousands of Kalb and Tayy and Asad—all tribes in confederation with my father. A week of great celebration and trading had filled their bellies and laden their camels with enough wares to satisfy them for months to come. They were all gone now, and Dumah was nearly deserted, a town of stray camels that grazed lazily or slept in the sun.

  To the south lay the forbidding Nafud desert, reserved for those Bedu who wished to tempt fate.

  A day’s ride to the east lay Sakakah, the stronghold of the Thamud tribe, which had long been our bitter enemy. The Thamud vultures refrained from descending on Dumah only for fear of King Aretas, Nasha’s uncle, who was allied with my father and whose army was vast. Though both the Thamud and Kalb tribes were powerful, neither could hold this oasis without Aretas’s support.

  But my father’s alliance with Aretas was sealed by Nasha’s life.

  In turn, Nasha alone offered me mercy and life.

  And Nasha was now close to death.

  These thoughts so distracted me that I failed to notice that little Rami’s suckling had ceased. He breathed in sleep, oblivious to the concern whispering through me.

  It was time. If I was discovered with Nasha, my father might become enraged and claim I had visited dishonor on his wife by entering her chamber. And yet I could not stay away from her any longer. I must go while Rami was still offering prayers at the shrine of the moon god, Wadd.

  Holding my son close, I quickly descended three flights of steps and made my way, barefooted, to my room at the back of the palace, careful that none of the servants noticed my passing. The fortress was entombed in silence.

  Leaving my son to sleep on the mat, I eased the door shut, grabbed my flowing gown with one hand so that I could move uninhibited, and ran through the lower passage. Up one flight of steps and down the hall leading to the palace’s southern side.

  “Maviah?”

  Catching my breath, I spun back to see Falak, Nasha’s well-fed servant, standing at the door that led into the cooking chamber.

  “Where do you rush off to?” she asked with scorn, for even the servants were superior to me.

  I recovered quickly. “Have you seen my father?”

  She regarded me with suspicion. “Where he’s gone is none of your concern.”

  “Do you know when he returns?”

  “What do you care?” Her eyes glanced over my gown, a simple white cotton dress fitting of commoners, not the richly colored silk worn by those of high standing in the Marid. “Where is the child?”

  “He sleeps.” I released my gown and settled, as if at a loss.

  “Alone?” she demanded.

  “I wish to ask my father if I might offer prayers for Nasha,” I said.

  “And what good are your prayers in these matters? Do not insult him with this request.”

  “I only thought—”

  “The gods do not listen to whores!”

  Her tone was cruel, which was not her normal way. She was only fearful of her own future should her mistress, Nasha, not recover.

  “Even a whore may love Nashquya,” I said with care. “And even Nashquya may love a whore. But I am not a whore, Falak. I am the mother of my father’s grandson.”

  “Then go to your son’s side where you belong.”

  I could have said more, but I wanted no suspicion.

  I dipped my head in respect. “When you next see Nashquya, will you tell her that the one whom she loves offers prayers for her?”

  Falak hesitated, then spoke with more kindness. “She’s with the priest now. I will tell her. See to your child.”

  Then she vanished back into the cooking chamber.

  I immediately turned and hurried down the hall, around the corner, past the chamber of audience where my father accepted visitors from the clans, then down another flight of steps to the master chamber in which Nasha kept herself.

  She was with a priest, Falak had said. So I slipped into the adjoining bathing room and parted the heavy curtain just wide enough to see into Nasha’s chamber.

  I was unprepared for what greeted my eyes. Her bed was on a raised stone slab unlike those of the Bedu, who prefer rugs and skins on the floor. A mattress of woven date palms wrapped in fine purple linens covered the stone. This bedding was lined at the head and the far side with red and golden pillows fringed in black, for she was Nabataean and accustomed to luxury. Nasha was lying back against the pillows, face pale as though washed in ash, eyelids barely parted. She wore only a thin linen gown, which clung to her skin, wet with sweat.

  One of the seers of the moon god Wadd, draped in a long white robe hemmed in blue fringe, faced her at the foot of the bed. He waved a large hand with long fingernails over a small iron bowl of burning incense as he muttered prayers in a bid to beg mercy from Dumah’s god. His eyes were not diverted from his task, so lost was he in his incantations.

  Nasha’s eyes opened wide and I knew that she’d seen me. My breath caught in my throat, for if the priest also saw me, he would report to my father.

  Nasha was within her wits enough to shift her eyes to the priest and feebly lift her arm.

  “Leave me,” she said thinly.

  His song faltered and he stared at her as though she had stripped him of his robe.

  Nasha pointed at the door. “Leave me.”

  “I don’t understand.” He looked at the door, confounded. “I… the sheikh called for me to resurrect his wife.”

  “And does she appear resurrected to you?”

  “But of course not. The god of Dumah is only just hearing my prayers and awakening from his sleep. I cannot possibly leave while in his audience.”

  “How long have you been praying?”

  “Since the sun was high.”

  “If it takes you so long to awaken your god, I would require a different priest and a new god.”

  Such as Al-Uzza, the Nabataean goddess to whom Nasha prayed, I thought. Al-Uzza might not sleep so deeply as Wadd, but I had never known any god to pay much attention to mortals, no matter how well plied.

  “The sheikh commanded me!” the priest said.

  “And now Nashquya, niece of the Nabataean king, Aretas, commands you,” she rasped. “You are alone with another man’s wife who has requested that you leave. Return to your shrine and retain your honor.”

  His face paled at the insinuation. Setting his jaw, he offered Nasha a dark scowl, spit in disgust, and left the chamber in long, indignant strides.

  The moment the door closed, I rushed in, aware that the priest’s report might hasten Rami’s return.

  “Nasha!” I hurried to her bed and dropped to my knees. Taking her hand I kissed it, surprised by the heat in her flesh. “Nasha… I’m so sorry. I was forbidden to come but I could not stay away.”

  “Maviah.” She smiled. “The gods have answered my dying request.”

  She was speaking out of her fever.

  I hurried to a bowl along the wall, dipped a cloth into the cool water, quickly wrung it out, and settled to my knees beside Nasha’s bed once again.

  She offered an appreciative look as I wiped the sweat from her brow. She was burning up from the inside. They called it the black fever.

  “You are strong, Nasha,” I said. “The fever will pass.”

  “It has been two days…”


  “I could have taken care of you!” I said. “Why must I be kept from you?”

  “Maviah. Sweet Maviah. Always so passionate. So eager to serve. If you had not been a slave, you would have been a true queen.”

  “Save your strength,” I scolded. She was the only one with whom I could speak so easily. “You must sleep. When did you last take the powder of the ghada fruit? Have they given you the Persian herbs?”

  “Yes… yes, yes. But it hardly matters now, Maviah. It’s taking me.”

  “Don’t speak such things!”

  “It’s taking me and I’ve made my peace with the gods. I’m an old woman…”

  “How can you say that? You’re still young.”

  “I’m twenty years past you and now ready to meet my end.”

  She was smiling but I wondered if her mind was already going.

  “Rami has gone to the shrine of Wadd to offer the blood of a goat,” she said. “Then all the gods will be appeased and I will enter the next life in peace. You mustn’t fear for me.”

  “No. I won’t allow the gods to take you so soon. I couldn’t bear to live without you!”

  Her face softened at my words, her eyes searching my own. “You’re my only sister, Maviah.” I wasn’t her sister by blood, but we shared a bond as if it were so.

  Worry began to overtake her face. A tear slipped from the corner of her eye. “I’m hardly a woman, Maviah,” she said, voice now strained.

  “Don’t be absurd…”

  “I cannot bear a son.”

  “But you have Maliku.”

  “Maliku is a tyrant!”

  Rami’s son by his first wife had been only a small boy when Nasha came to Dumah to seal Rami’s alliance with the Nabataean kingdom through marriage. My elder by two years, Maliku expected to inherit our father’s full authority among the Kalb, though I was sure Rami did not trust him.

  “Hush,” I whispered, glancing at the door. “You’re speaking out of fever!” And yet I too despised Maliku. Perhaps as much as he despised me, for he had no love to give except that which earned him position, power, or possession.

  “I’m dying, Maviah.”

  “You won’t die, Nasha.” I clung to her hand. “I will pray to Al-Uzza. I will pray to Isis.”

  In Egypt I had learned to pray to the goddess Isis, who is called Al-Uzza among the Nabataeans, for they believe she is the protector of children, friend of slaves and the downtrodden—the highest goddess. And yet I was already convinced that even she, who had once favored me in Egypt, had either turned her back on me or grown deaf. Or perhaps she was only a fanciful creation of men to intoxicate shamed women.

  “The gods have already heard my final request by bringing my sister to my side,” she said.

  “Stop!” I said. “Your fever is speaking. You are queen of this desert, wife of the sheikh, who commands a hundred thousand camels and rules all the Kalb who look toward Dumah!”

  “I am weak and eaten with worms.”

  “You are in the line of Aretas, whose wealth is coveted by all of Rome and Palestine and Egypt and Arabia. You are Nashquya, forever my queen!”

  At this, Nasha’s face went flat and she stared at me with grave resolve. When she finally spoke, her voice was contained.

  “No, Maviah. It is you who will one day rule this vast kingdom at the behest of the heavens. It is written already.”

  She was mad with illness, and her shift in disposition frightened me.

  “I saw it when you first came to us,” she said. “There isn’t a woman in all of Arabia save the queens of old who carries herself like you. None so beautiful as you. None so commanding of life.”

  What could I say to her rambling? She couldn’t know that her words mocked me, a woman drowning in the blood of dishonor.

  “You must rest,” I managed.

  But she only tightened her grasp on my arm.

  “Take your son away, Maviah! Flee with him before the Nabataeans dash his head on the rocks. Flee Dumah and save your son.”

  “My son is Rami’s son!” I jerked my arm away, horrified by her words. “My son is safe with my father!”

  “Your father’s alliance with the Nabataeans is bound by my life,” she said. “I am under Rami’s care. Do you think King Aretas will only shrug if I die? Rami has defiled the gods.”

  “He’s offended which god?”

  “Am I a god to know? But I would not be ill if he had not.” So it was said—the gods made their displeasure known. “Aretas will show his outrage for all to see, so that his image remains unshakable before all people.”

  “A hundred thousand Kalb serve Rami,” I said, desperate to denounce her fear, for it was also my own.

  “Only because of his alliance with Aretas,” she said plainly. “If I die and Aretas withdraws his support, I fear for Rami.”

  Any honor that I might wrestle from this life came only from my father, the greatest of all sheikhs, who could never fail. My only purpose was to win his approval by honoring him—this was the way of all Bedu daughters. If his power in the desert was compromised, I would become worthless.

  “He has deserted the old ways,” Nasha whispered. “He’s not as strong as he once was.”

  The Bedu are a nomadic people, masters of the desert, free to couch camel and tent in any quarter or grazing land. They are subject to none but other Bedu who might desire the same lands. It has always been so, since before the time of Abraham and his son Ishmael, the ancient father of the Bedu in northern Arabia.

  In the true Bedu mind, a stationary life marks the end of the Bedu way. Mobility is essential to survival in such a vast wasteland. Indeed, among many tribes, the mere building of any permanent structure is punishable by death.

  In taking control of Dumah, a city built of squared stone walls and edifices such as the palace Marid, a fortress unto itself, Rami and his subjects had undermined the sacred Bedu way, though the wealth brought by this indiscretion blinded most men.

  I knew as much, but hearing Nasha’s conviction, fear welled up within me. I wiped her forehead with the cool cloth again.

  “Rest now. You must sleep.”

  Nasha sagged into the pillows and closed her eyes. “Pray to Al-Uzza,” she whispered after a moment. “Pray to Dushares. Pray to Al-Lat. Pray to yourself to save us all.”

  And then she stilled, breathing deeply.

  “Nasha?”

  She made no response. I drew loose strands of hair from her face.

  “Nasha, dear Nasha, I will pray,” I whispered.

  She lay unmoving, perhaps asleep.

  “I swear I will pray.”

  “Maviah,” she whispered.

  I stared at her face, ashen but at peace.

  “Nasha?”

  And then she whispered again.

  “Maviah…”

  They were the last words I would hear Nashquya of the Nabataeans, wife to my father and sister to me, speak in this life.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IT IS SAID among the Bedu that there are ghouls in the desert—shape-shifting demons that assume the guise of creatures, particularly hyenas, and lure unwary travelers into the sands to slay and devour them. Also nasnas, monsters made of half a human head, one leg, and one arm. They hunt people, hopping with great agility. And jinn, some of which are evil spirits, such as marids, who can grant a man’s wishes, yet compel him to do their bidding in devious matters.

  It is said that these ghouls and nasnas and jinn prey on the weak, on children, and on women who are dishonorable. Although I wasn’t sure that such creatures truly existed, I sometimes dreamed of them and woke in fear.

  The night Nasha left me I dreamed that I was alone with little Rami, wandering in the wastelands of the Nafud, that merciless desert south of Dumah. We were outcasts and without a kingdom to save us, and the gods were too far above in the heavens to hear our cries. Soon our own wailing was overcome by the mocking cry of ghouls hunting us, and it was with these howls in my ear that I awoke, wet w
ith sweat.

  It took only a moment to realize that the ghastly wail issued from the halls and not from the spirits of my dreams.

  Little Rami slept soundly on the mat next to me, his arms resting above his shaggy head, lost to the world and the sounds of agony.

  I sat up, heart pounding, and knew I was hearing my father from a distant room.

  I rolled away from my child, sprang to my feet, and raced up the steps and down the hallway, uncaring that I wasn’t properly dressed, for it was too hot to sleep in more than a thin gown.

  So distraught was I that I flung the door open without thought of seeking permission to enter.

  My gaze went straight to the bed. Nasha lay on her back with her eyes closed and her mouth parted. Her lips had the pallor of burnt myrrh, gray and lifeless. No breath entered her.

  My father, unaware of my entry, stood beside the bed with his back to me.

  Here was the most powerful Bedu in northern Arabia, for his strength in battle and raids was feared by all tribes. Like all great Bedu he was steeped in honor, which he would defend to the death. Nasha was responsible for a significant portion of that honor.

  His first wife, Durrah, who was Maliku’s mother, had been killed in a raid many years earlier. Filled with fury and thirsty for revenge, Rami had crossed the desert alone, walked into the main encampment of the Tayy tribe, and slaughtered their sheikh with a broadsword right before the eyes of the clansmen. So ruthless and bold was his revenge that the Tayy honored him with a hundred camels in addition to the life of their sheikh, of which Rami had been deserving.

  Blood was always repaid by blood. An eye for an eye. Clansman for clansman. Only vengeance could restore honor. This or blood money. Or, less commonly, mercy, offered also with blood in a tradition called the Light of Blood.

  It was the way of the Bedu. It was the way of the gods. It was the way of my father.

  But here in Nasha’s chamber there was no sign of that man.

  Rami was dressed only in his long nightshirt, hands tearing at his hair as he sobbed. He raised clenched fists at the ceiling.