A.D. 30

by Ted Dekker

  I stared into his eyes and he into mine, stunned.

  “Forgive me, I—”

  He silenced me with another kiss. I had known that Judah was a zealous man, but I had not felt his great passion until then.

  He pulled away, held my face in his hands, and spoke gently. “I will not forgive what is freely given. Nor must you.”

  “No,” I said. “Do not forgive me.”

  “Nor you me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Then it’s settled.” Judah released me and sat back, grinning like a boy who has discovered his first secret. “Now tell me what concerns you so deeply.”

  So I sat beside him, staring into the night, and I told him my deepest fears. That I was too common to win the favor of a king, that I was too weak to avenge my son’s death, that now the Kalb and my father relied on the very slave girl they themselves had saddled with shame.

  When I finished he remained quiet for a long time, arms on his knees, gazing at the stars on the horizon.

  “In Arabia and in Palestine both, they say that a man is more honorable than a woman,” he finally said. “But this I know is a lie. In truth, all of man is first born of woman, then, when grown, slave to woman. Think of Yeshua. Born of a woman whose love and nurturing make the way for him to be king.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Think of Herod, then. Would even a king not give away his kingdom for a woman? You underestimate your true power, as a woman. So who says a woman is born with less honor than a man?”

  I could not properly appreciate his words just then. I thought them prompted by affection. And yet they pulled at me, deep within.

  “Even the gods recognize the power of a woman,” he said. “Is not your god Isis?”

  “I no longer serve a god.”

  “But do men not bow to Isis? Do they not beg Al-Uzza for her good fortune?”

  “You believe in neither,” I said.

  “True, but what do I know? Sometimes I don’t believe in my God, though he be one. And for this I beg his forgiveness in sacrifice, only hoping for his mercy. But what good is any god, be he man or woman, if he cannot give his people bread?”

  “None.”

  “In Israel the king has also been called the son of God, appointed by the divine to rule. And now even as Israel begs her son of God to restore her land and the bread of that land, so the desert begs her daughter of God to restore her honor. Is this not true?”

  “I don’t think I can give it to them.”

  “But you will, Maviah. You will see and then you will believe.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  He shrugged. “Then it was not meant to be. And this too is life. I only ask that you begin to see what I see in you. Tomorrow you will stand before the king, Herod, who will only see you as you see yourself. And then he will offer you his favor.”

  I remained silent, wondering if I could see myself with such favor.

  “Herod is a man,” Judah said very quietly. “There is no one to win his favor like a woman such as you.”

  I felt myself blush in the darkness.

  “I have no interest in appealing to the man in him.”

  “And yet Saba is right—you come for your people, and so you will do what you must.”

  “This doesn’t bother you?”

  He responded slowly.

  “It isn’t my right to speak on this matter.”

  This was true.

  “I would, however, advise against marriage,” he said, with a hint of mirth. “His wife, Phasaelis, is the daughter of Aretas and surely filled with as much pride as her father.”

  Phasaelis. I had given little thought to Herod’s wife, for surely she wouldn’t have a voice in Herod’s court. If so… she was the daughter of Aretas, whom I sought to betray even as he’d betrayed my father. It was his endorsement of the Thamud that had led to my son’s death.

  “Could she present a difficulty? Surely this wife won’t be party to his decisions.”

  Judah’s brow arched. “Do women not turn the heads of kings as I said?”

  “Then I can only pray that this Herod isn’t such a weak king.”

  “No, Maviah. We will pray that he is. Do you not intend to turn his head as well?”

  I saw the challenge and for a moment felt loath to embrace it. But then I let my fear go, because this was the path before me, regardless of where it led. What other choice did I have now?

  None that offered any hope.

  “I will do what I must do.”

  “And you will do it as a queen.”

  I put my hand on his head and ran my fingers through his hair. It was strange to feel so honored by a man. There in the desert, I truly was Judah’s queen.

  “Enough about kings and queens,” I said. “Tell me about the stars, Judah.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE CITY OF SEPPHORIS in Galilee was by any standard expansive and stunning. Saba knew the city well enough, having been twice with caravans from the Far East across the northern trade route, which ran through Mesopotamia.

  My only adequate comparison was that majestic city called Memphis, which lay south of my Roman master’s country estate. As a slave I had been to Memphis twice.

  Though smaller, Sepphoris was just as grand. There could not have been a greater disparity between the tiny hole called Nazareth and that modern city on a hill called Sepphoris. Saba said more than thirty thousand lived here, nearly half as many as lived in Jerusalem.

  Where Nazareth consisted of a few humble homes made of mud, dung, and reeds, couched together with common courtyards for communal cooking, Herod’s ornament of Galilee was a walled city of Roman design, newly constructed of limestone blocks and the hardest woods.

  But it was the makeup of the population that set Sepphoris apart from Nazareth. Before entering the city, I had seen only the poor; Sepphoris was inhabited also by those of great wealth.

  The poor were nearly all Jewish. They mingled with the rich only in the markets and on the streets.

  According to Saba the rich were in equal parts rich Jewish landowners and foreigners—Arabians, Greeks, and Romans, the latter being primarily soldiers.

  We approached from the east along a low ridge. Here a covered aqueduct flowed with clean water from a massive limestone reservoir farther east. Then we passed through the eastern gate, which was flanked by two tall, square towers guarded by Roman soldiers. These were dressed in leather skirts, breastplates, helmets, and red capes.

  A soldier gave us a cursory look, then turned away, evidently seeing no harm in three Arabians on camels with only saddlebags.

  Guards were posted upon the wall at long intervals around the entire city. No one could possibly approach Sepphoris without being seen or challenged.

  “Do not worry, Maviah,” Saba said as we passed into the city, for he could see that I was unnerved by the scale of it. “Remember that you are protected by Varus and are friend to Herod.”

  “These soldiers are yours to command,” Judah agreed, but this was only his bravado speaking, for I commanded no one but him, and then only in private.

  Beyond the gate the stone-paved road took us to a plaza where Jewish farmers sold their produce—mostly beans, melons, olives, wheat, and lentils from what I could see. The city was made of many houses, apartments, and shops constructed along the main street, which ran east-west and ascended a switchback rise to the towering wall at the city center.

  My eyes were on this wall as we passed through the market. The towering structures of Herod’s acropolis, a royal city within a city, were clearly in view beyond the wall.

  We were surrounded by the hustle and bustle of merchants, many of them aided by young boys, each urging us to buy his produce or wares. It was a larger, louder version of the scene that had greeted us in Nazareth.

  “Ignore them,” Judah said, eyes on the acropolis. “Remember who you are.”

  Yes, of course. I was a queen. And so I rode on, shoulders fixed, head straight
, breathing calmly though my heart raced. Even so, I could not hide my interest in certain distinguished men who wore long white robes, and shawls with tassels and blue stripes. Small black boxes were strapped to their foreheads.

  “They carry scrolls with prayers,” Judah said, noticing my interest in the boxes. “These are the holy men of Israel who follow the Law without error.”

  And were proud to do so, I thought. I dared not attract their attention. Women were not permitted to look men in the eye, Saba had said.

  We had discussed our entry into Herod’s courts. Aware that once we reached the gate to the acropolis we would be challenged by the guard, we had decided that I, not Judah or Saba, was the one who must show authority. Saba had given me the dagger of Varus, now at my side. And so it was with my role in mind that I directed my camel to the Roman guard who stood before the massive oak gate.

  One wearing a red cape stepped forward when it became clear that my intention was to enter. “What is your business here?” he demanded. His eyes flickered over Judah and Saba behind me.

  “My name is Maviah, daughter of Rami bin Malik in Dumah,” I said. “I have come for an audience with Herod, tetrarch of Galilee and Perea.”

  A faint smile crossed his face. “Herod?”

  “Does he not rule here?”

  “You are a whore?”

  A guard behind him chuckled. In that moment I reached inside my mind and traded myself for the Roman mistress I’d served as a slave in Egypt—a powerful woman unlike any I had since known.

  “Does the daughter of a king look like a whore to you, Roman?”

  He appeared unimpressed, so I continued.

  “And if I am Herod’s whore, would you deny him his lusts?”

  “Then you don’t know that Herod has no whores who pass through this gate. Nor queens without Roman guard.”

  “I have no Roman guard because I have brought my own slaves, each with the strength of ten Roman soldiers, as you can see.”

  I held his gaze, boldly challenging him. Was this not what a queen would say?

  The guard’s lips flattened. “You should watch your tongue here.”

  “And you yours,” I said.

  His expression soured and I knew I’d pushed the boundaries. So I calmly withdrew the dagger of Varus from my sash and held it out.

  “Since you doubt my honor.”

  He glanced at it, then took the knife and inspected the hilt, which clearly showed the crest of Varus. Another soldier had approached and peered at the dagger.

  “What is it?”

  “The insignia of Varus.” My interrogator looked up at me. “Where did you get this?”

  “My father, ruler of Arabia, was given it for audience with Rome as required. It was Rami bin Malik’s victory with Varus at his side that allowed Herod to build Sepphoris.”

  There was still doubt in the soldier’s eyes, but his contempt was gone, for he was surely familiar enough with the city’s history to know it had been burned to the ground before Rome gave Herod charge over Galilee.

  He passed the dagger to the other soldier. “We will see if Herod agrees.”

  “Of course. We will wait.”

  As the second soldier headed for a horse tied by a smaller gate, I nudged my camel to turn. Then, on second thought, I glanced back.

  “We’ve been on a long journey with urgent business and the sun is hot today. Please keep that in mind.”

  I did not glance at Judah or Saba until we retreated to the shade of a palm, out of the guard’s hearing. Even then I turned my gaze to the gate, where the soldier looked my way, having dispatched his companion to Herod’s court.

  Judah whistled under his breath. “And now the star shines.”

  I fought my worry. “It wasn’t too much?”

  “It appears not.”

  “Be careful,” Saba said. “Such men shouldn’t be crossed.”

  His words pricked me. “Then I overstepped.”

  “Don’t fill her mind with worry, Saba,” Judah hissed. “She does only what comes naturally.”

  He was wrong. I felt no more natural here than I might have stepping from a boat into the sea having never learned to swim. And yet I sat still and erect. The soldiers were watching.

  Neither Judah nor Saba made mention of my calling them my slaves, which had come from me without forethought, because it was natural for a queen to be accompanied by such strong men. Judah would have no trouble, but Saba surely swallowed the notion of being slave to a woman with some difficulty.

  Still, he played his role in service to his master, Rami, with grace.

  We waited for nearly an hour before the soldier who’d been dispatched returned and gave his verdict to the other, who then motioned to us.

  Again we approached, and this time he waved for the gate to open. “Quintus will take you.”

  And so we entered the acropolis, inner city to Herod, Jewish ruler of Galilee under the authority of Rome. The soldier rode in silence several lengths before us, leading us over the clean-swept streets, in no hurry.

  We passed magnificent villas like none we’d yet seen. Herod had indeed built his seat of power using impressive Roman and Greek architecture. Tall palms swayed in the wind along narrow canals and around pools. I felt as though I had entered an oasis, though we were high on a hill.

  The cobbled way led past a massive circular theater with towering walls. Johnin, father of my son, had been killed in one such Roman arena.

  A team of slaves worked at a wooden structure the height of fifteen men, an irrigation waterwheel. Its buckets lifted water from an aqueduct on the acropolis wall to suspended troughs, which I assumed fed pools and cisterns at the palace’s highest point. Many stone columns rose along the causeway, supporting covered walkways.

  According to Saba, Herod had spent thirty years building the city, and I could now see why so much effort had been required, surely on the backs of Jewish workers. Perhaps Miriam’s son, Yeshua, had learned a disdain for Roman oppression here, on these very streets.

  When we came to the entrance to the royal court, Quintus handed us off to another soldier, this one in black leathers. The palace guard, I guessed. Quintus dipped his head in respect, uttered the man’s name, “Brutus,” then turned his horse and left.

  By the scar over his right eye and another visible below his sleeve, this one called Brutus appeared to have seen his share of battle. He had limbs like small trees and towered over a normal man. He was as tall as Saba. But he did not possess Saba’s placid demeanor. The scowl on his face looked fixed.

  “Leave the beasts here,” he ordered. “With your weapons.”

  We offered no objection, though I knew that both Judah and Saba might just as well have been asked to disrobe in public. I could see Saba’s jaw flex as he removed the two knives at his waist and the bow upon his back and carefully placed them in his saddlebag.

  Thus stripped, we followed the brute past armed guards, up a sweep of marble steps, and to a great atrium. Its towering dome was supported by columns that surrounded a fountain and pool. We kept going, up another wide staircase also flanked by guards in full regalia, then through the entrance into Herod’s villa.

  The grand room into which we were led had a polished marble floor with yet another, smaller pool at its center. Herod clearly had an obsession with water, which was life. A curved stairway on either side of the expansive hall rose to the second-story walkway, which encircled the room. Ahead, yet more steps led to what I assumed would be the inner sanctum.

  Everywhere I looked I saw frescos and tall decorative vessels. The railing was trimmed in silver polished by servants. The frescos were embedded with precious stones and framed by velvet curtains.

  My first sight of Herod’s palace took my breath away, and I stopped for a moment. This then was what so many taxes had purchased for the ruler of Galilee.

  “This way,” Brutus said.

  Neither Judah nor Saba spoke, but I could hear them breathing close behind, surel
y as impressed as I. Or as affronted.

  We were led around the pool, up the broad steps flanked by yet more guards, and into Herod’s living quarters. By the looks of the long carved dining table to the right and the groupings of upholstered chairs about the room, he met with dignitaries and entertained private guests here.

  The oil lamps on the tables and the walls were all silver. Copious draperies of rich red and green velvet were suspended from the ceiling between windows that peered out on an expansive view so high above the city.

  Herod stood by a table with his back to us, pouring wine from a pitcher into a silver chalice. He wore a purple robe with a golden sash and his feet were bare on the polished floor. Apart from the guard and two servants who worked over the table, freshening offerings of grapes, olives, and cheese, we were alone with him.

  “As you requested, my lord,” Brutus announced. “The Bedu.” He stepped to one side.

  I had applied the frankincense upon rising and Judah had helped me with the strings of black stones about my forehead and around my neck, then assured me that I was a stunning sight to behold. But in this extravagant palace, my white linen dress and olive mantle only humbled me.

  “So…” Herod’s voice filled the room. Back still to us, he picked up the dagger of Varus, looked at it curiously for a moment, then unceremoniously dropped it into a chest by his feet.

  “Maviah, queen of the desert.”

  He turned slowly, then lifted the chalice to his lips, his piercing amber eyes never leaving mine.

  By any measure Herod was a handsome, powerfully built man. His trimmed beard and wavy hair were nearly black, though I knew he’d lived fifty years.

  His robe hung loosely over his shoulders, as if he’d only just risen and shrugged into it, but his hair was oiled. Two golden rings, one with a ruby, the other ornately fashioned, hugged strong fingers. He held his goblet with grace.

  He wore his authority with careless confidence, like a man who was bored with his command. I was immediately reminded of how powerless I was in his court. Fear whispered through my bones, mocking me.

  You are a fool, Maviah, a powerless woman in this world of kingdoms ruled by ruthless men.