A.D. 30

by Ted Dekker

  Yeshua

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ON THE FLAT desert leading up to the dunes, we passed clumps of ghada shrubs. Their white, fist-size fruit is good only for medicinal purposes, for it is a bitter fruit, but the ghada wood burns hot and is used to light the fires of all who live along the Nafud’s edges.

  I could not keep my sorrow at bay, but I did not wish to appear weak, so I kept my thoughts to myself and mourned in silence. Judah remained quiet as well, though I suspected this was because he sensed my need for solace.

  As for Saba, he might have remained mute in any circumstance.

  The pale dunes of the northern Nafud rose like mountains and cast shadows even in the darkness. Judah was riding with one leg tucked under him, as was the preferred position for long stretches. We had traveled the flat for over an hour before he began to sing under his breath.

  To this, Saba took exception, so Judah went silent again, but within a short time, his voice rose softly in song once more.

  Again Saba looked at him with disapproval.

  “Do you think my song will carry farther than the roars of these beasts as we climb the dunes?” Judah asked.

  “Silence is now our language of choice,” Saba said, voice deep and soft.

  “Perhaps the language of your choice,” Judah returned. “But I feel the camels prefer song. It woos them.”

  “Beasts are not wooed by song. You’ve mistaken them for women.”

  “You don’t like the sound of my voice, Saba? How can you pretend to be so stiff? Around the fire, all Bedu love my song.”

  “I see no fire.”

  “I will teach you to sing, Saba. Before we reach the Holy Land you will sing and a hundred women will watch you with desire in their eyes.”

  Saba grunted. “We search for a king, not a woman to keep you warm.”

  “But I must teach you to sing. Like an eagle in the sky, calling all birds to follow. Like a wolf haunting the night with its call. Song will fill your throat and even kings will stand in wonder.”

  “You speak too much. Where I come from, silence is the greatest song of the human heart. Only in silence can the call of the sands be heard. Quiet your tongue now and you will still hear the mourning of those in Dumah.”

  “And does not song comfort those who mourn?” Judah looked at the sky. “I now call for God, who is in the heavens, to hear our song and comfort his people.”

  Saba spoke evenly in his low voice. “There is no god in the heavens. He sits upon your camel even now.”

  “Then let God sing!” Judah said.

  I had to smile as I rode behind them. The Bedu cannot help but argue. Indeed, even Saba had violated his own demand for silence.

  “Let him sing, Saba,” I said quietly. “The silence pulls at my heart.”

  “You see!” Judah said. “We must lift her heart to the sky so that it may soar once again. Sing, Saba! Sing for us.”

  Saba wasn’t impressed, and though he quit his objections he refused to sing.

  Judah gave me a knowing smile and began to sing again, softly, in poetic verse, about the desert and the stars and his god, who had made all things with his breath. Judah kept his eyes ahead and looked at the sky often. And after a time, I saw that Saba had settled on his mount, accepting.

  When we came to the base of the first dune, I was sure that no camel could climb its steep slope. Surely there was an easier way around. But neither Judah nor Saba appeared bothered by that wall of sand.

  “We lead them from here,” Saba said, pulling up and dismounting. “Keep the camels moving.”

  He dropped to the ground, gathered the lead rope, and tugged his camel forward. The unsaddled male trudged behind, tied to the tail of Saba’s mount.

  I followed directly, and Judah behind me, in Saba’s tracks. These cut a line across and up the dune’s steep face. The soft sand swallowed my sandals and my feet to the ankles, and I struggled to maintain my balance while tugging on Shunu’s lead. She made her displeasure plain, moaning loudly every other step, pulling against her rope.

  We were only a quarter of the way up when I stopped, thinking that even a camel knew such a path was madness. To my left the sand rose like a cliff to an insurmountable peak, black against the night sky. To my right it fell away at such a grade that I was sure one slip would send me tumbling to the bottom. It had taken us far too long to reach this unremarkable height, and we had only just begun.

  “All is well, Maviah!” Judah cried behind me. “This is not too steep for Shunu.” He was pulling his own stubborn beast, and now he placed a hand on Shunu’s rump and gave her a shove. “You see? She goes.”

  So I slogged forward, thinking that there was no turning back to the death in Dumah. My only hope lay ahead, over this dune and all that I couldn’t yet see.

  With each step I was sure that the sand would collapse under my feet, or that one of the camels would finally tumble down. I often stumbled to a knee, clambered back to my feet, and pushed on. I was tugging Shunu, but in truth she was my anchor. Only my firm grasp on her lead rope kept me from sliding down the slope when I lost my footing.

  “It is close, Maviah,” Judah would say, pushing against my camel’s hindquarters as he pulled at his own mount. “Now we can almost touch the top. And then it will be easy.”

  He would say such a thing though the peak still rose like a lance far above our heads. And yet his voice soothed me like a warm wind from behind.

  It took us nearly as long to climb that first behemoth as it had to cross the flats. But we finally crested the ridge and I was full of triumph until the way before us came into view.

  The pale sands extended as far as I could see, hundreds and thousands of towering billows, some as high as the one we’d just ascended. My heart fell. How one could cross such a sea of sand, I didn’t know.

  “You see,” Judah beamed, teeth white by the moonlight. “Not even the Thamud will follow us here.”

  He was indeed the consummate optimist.

  “We go,” Saba said.

  “We go,” Judah echoed.

  And so we went. Down at an angle, sliding and nearly falling as frequently as we had during the ascent. But at a much faster pace.

  We followed a trough between the slopes and scaled the next dune at a lower point, but even so, my legs could hardly support me by the time we reached its crest. After consulting with Judah, who in turn consulted the stars, Saba led us along several lower dunes over which we could ride mounted.

  Then we were confronted with another wall of sand, and once again we plowed our way up its face before sliding down the far side.

  And so it went for another two hours before we reached a wide valley of sand. Judah pointed the way and we continued without a rest, mounted once again.

  Our tired camels plodded abreast now, separated by ten paces each, too spent to keep up their complaining. A bitter cold had set in, so we wrapped our cloaks and scarves around our necks and arms.

  Judah’s song, when he began to sing again, soothed me. Saba offered no opposition this time. Indeed, I was sure that I heard him hum a time or two. Judah sang to the stars, he sang to Raza, he sang to his god, he sang to all Bedu and all Jews.

  Judah came to the end of a song and pulled his mount close to mine. For a while he rode without speaking, frequently glancing at the sky.

  “Does my song comfort you, Maviah?”

  His voice was tender and when I looked into his eyes, they were the same.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “All my life I have been singing, as do all Bedu. But not all with their hearts, I think.” He looked high again. “The day of redemption is coming. You will see, Maviah. The stars see it already.”

  I followed his stare but imagined nothing of what the stars could see except three Bedu fleeing through a sea of sand.

  “What do you think when you stare at the stars?” I asked.

  “I am remembering my own tribe, where the wisest of men read them as easily as other Bedu read
the sands.”

  “Which tribe? May I ask?”

  “You may speak to me as you will,” he said. And I knew then that Judah was rare among the Bedu. “I am from the Kokobanu tribe, north. The stars foretell all things, though their words are known only to few.”

  I had heard only once of these distant Bedu who studied the stars. Surely they were a visionary people enamored with dreams and hope. Like Judah.

  “And what do the stars say about our journey?” I asked.

  “They say nothing about this journey. But they led the elders on a journey many years ago.” He spoke with great reverence. “A star led them to a new king, who will deliver his people from their oppression and slavery, as foretold by the prophets of God long ago.”

  In the desert there is no end to folklore and talk of distant gods.

  “Your people have seen this king?”

  “Not as king. But the elders saw him and offered gifts. It is my hope that I too will see him.”

  “You don’t speak of Herod?”

  “God forbid! Herod is a jackal who betrays all Jews. I speak of the Anointed One, who will see Herod and Rome crushed!”

  Saba broke his silence. “We go to Herod with the dagger of Varus for favor. Watch your tongue or he might take it from you.”

  “Is Herod here in the sands to hear me?”

  “If we reach Palestine, he will read the hatred in your eyes.”

  “They will not read the eyes of Judah! I am far too clever.”

  Clearly Judah had many hopes. But surely he wouldn’t betray my father for this other passion of his.

  “He has a name, this king?” I asked.

  “This is not spoken among my people, for fear his life would be threatened if he were exposed. At any rate, a true king needs only the name of God.”

  “Then how will you find him?”

  “The sun will rise with him, as with any king. His words will call all Jews out of oppression.” Judah used his hands to emphasize his words. “And also, I know where he was born. He is the seed of David, who was also a king.”

  “So, then, perhaps your king will save us from our oppressors as well.”

  “But of course! You must only worship him.”

  Naturally, I thought. And offer him sacrifices or gifts.

  “And will he restore honor to a woman sold into slavery?”

  “Even as he led his people out of slavery long ago.”

  “And will he give a mother her child back?”

  This quieted him. After a moment he said, “Perhaps not. But I think he could give you many sons.”

  The sand, for centuries unmoved save to drift back and forth on strong winds, continued to pass beneath us.

  “The father of your son, where is he?” Judah asked.

  I hesitated, because it was improper to speak of such things to men, even more to strangers. And yet I was in their charge, so I decided then to tell them whom they were escorting through the Nafud. In the wake of my son’s death, I no longer had anything to lose.

  “You know that I was born to a defiled mother among the Abysm tribe.”

  My boldness caught even Judah slightly off guard. When he spoke, his voice was gentle.

  “Yes.”

  “Rami sent me away to Egypt when I was an infant, where I was sold as a slave to a wealthy Roman household. My master traded in wares between Egypt and Rome.”

  The camels plodded on.

  “When I was eleven, he began to trade in fighters for the arenas. He purchased strong slaves and trained them to fight with sword and hammer and spear. Gladiators, some call these fighters. My son’s father was the strongest of them all. He was given the name Titus by the master. I knew him as Johnin of Persia.”

  A soft whistle of wonder from Judah. Saba was watching me as well.

  “Why did you not stay with your husband?” Judah asked.

  “A slave isn’t permitted to marry,” I said. “In my eighteenth year we grew close in secret. But when I showed with child, our secret was discovered and the mistress became angry. She would have Johnin as her own.”

  My companions remained silent.

  “The master had always favored his best slaves and showed me mercy. But I had to leave. His wife could no longer tolerate either me or Johnin. He was sent to the north and I heard later that he perished in Rome. I was sent to another village, where I gave birth. When my son was old enough to travel, I was returned to Dumah with a caravan.”

  They said nothing. If I’d been a man, colorful words of praise for my survival and brazen declarations of outrage at my enemies would by now be flowing.

  “So now you know whom you risk your life for,” I said.

  “We risk our lives for Rami’s blood,” Saba said. “And for his will.”

  “Then serve Rami well,” I said. “Without him, I am nothing.”

  When Judah finally spoke, there was a new heaviness in his voice.

  “It is said that a woman is born into shame,” he said. “It is also said by some that a Jew is born the same. And yet there was once a Jew who came out of Egypt and set his people free.”

  I did not know what he referred to, but I didn’t press.

  He looked at me. “I think you are wrong, Maviah. You are Rami’s blood, yes, but more, you are his will. And as his will, you may return honor to your people.” He returned to staring ahead. “Even as the Messiah will restore the honor of all Jews.”

  “I will return to avenge my son,” I said. “Rami has only heaped suffering on us both.”

  I regretted my words the moment they left my mouth.

  “Forgive me,” I said. “I speak too quickly.”

  “As I said, to me, you may speak as you like,” Judah said. “I am Rami’s servant, and now he sends me home to the Holy Land. If I had not left my tribe and sworn myself to his service, I would still be in the deepest sands. We must both accept God’s will. You will see.”

  It was typical Bedu fatalism.

  “Tell her, Saba. It is best to accept.”

  Saba answered hesitantly. “To accept, yes, though not as the will of any god. We are not his slaves. We are the slaves of those who rise over us.”

  “And would you not crush those who rise over you?” Judah asked.

  “To what end? So that they might rise again? There is no end to uprising and war.”

  “And yet you swear vengeance for Rami,” Judah said.

  “He is my master and has expressed his will. I gave myself in service to him and count myself his slave, and so I accept my duty.” In calling himself slave, Saba only honored Rami, for he was not owned by Rami as a lowly slave. Truly, he was sworn servant, not slave—Bedu used the term liberally. In fact, Saba was one of Rami’s most trusted warriors, commanding the largest raiding parties. “To desire more than service only breeds endless suffering.”

  “Then I will suffer for my God and be his hand of vengeance against those who crush the Jews!” Judah said.

  They went on, back and forth, my son’s death already long behind them. Such was the Bedu way in such a harsh land. And in this respect, they were both right: I must accept my fate.

  Indeed, I found their argument amusing. In his own way, each was equally right, and they often said the same thing, though expressed very differently.

  Coming to no agreement, Judah ended their banter.

  “We disagree over little,” he finally said. “We agree on our charge, whether from man or God or both. Maviah possesses Rami’s dagger, and with it, the hope of honor for the Banu Kalb. For this charge I will offer my life.”

  “And I,” Saba said.

  In that moment I felt honored to be in their company.

  Nothing more of my past was spoken of that night, but I was happy to have bared my heart and remained in their good graces. And when Judah began to sing again, I wished I knew the songs.

  We traveled until we were all too exhausted to remain awake in the saddle, for both Judah and Saba had been in battle that day, and I had
lost all my strength to grief. Still we passed the wide valley and several more dunes before Saba finally pulled up at the base of tall, jutting rocks and announced that we would sleep for a few hours.

  “We will eat,” Judah announced, bounding to the sand.

  Saba withdrew a skin and began to milk the she-camels. There was a bundle of wood and dried camel dung in one of the saddlebags, and Judah laid these down for a fire.

  There was no tent to erect and I felt strange, watching a man work while I stood by. But Judah was far more practiced with limited supplies and there was little to do. Furthermore, he seemed pleased to serve, which too surprised me. He soon had a small fire burning and was preparing food.

  I sat watching with both legs pulled to one side as he mixed flour and water in a pan and coaxed it into a thick dough. After forming six small cakes, he quickly seared each on a bed of hot coals, then covered them with sand and laid the red coals on top. In this way the clean desert sand made an oven that baked the bread quickly and without burning it. Once the cakes were cooked, he brushed away the grit.

  “Tell me, Maviah,” he said, looking up at me with a smile. “When the Bedu serve food in the camp, who gets the largest portion?”

  I hesitated.

  “The guest.”

  “And if there is no guest?”

  “Then they cast lots.”

  “Yes, each man hoping for the smallest portion so as to honor the others. Otherwise the men will fight, insisting they have been given too much food and refusing to eat, for fear they will dishonor the others. I saw once a Bedu throw down his guest’s tent in outrage when the guest insisted on eating the smaller portion without casting lots.”

  And yet in a raid that same man might slit the throat of that same guest to relieve him of his camel, for the Bedu are a raiding people, free to take any man’s camel so long as it is taken by force and not stolen unseen, which is shameful.

  Upon my returning from Egypt it was at first difficult for me to understand these conflicting ways, but I had come to see that a tenuous balance allowed for survival in the desert, for what was taken by force was also shared with honor, otherwise raiding would soon empty the sands of all living souls. As it was, there was only enough water in the desert to support the strongest.